


Gotham Noir: The Man With The Lonely Eyes

by icarus_chained



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU - Comicverse, Superman (Comics)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Noir, Case Fic, Crimes & Criminals, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Femme Fatale, Gen, Homme Fatal, Lies, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarus_chained/pseuds/icarus_chained
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Two weeks ago I walked the darkest city in America. Two weeks ago I met the man of my dreams. Two weeks ago I was caught up in a web of treachery and murder to rival the best Raymond Chandler novel, embroiled in a story that beat out anything Metropolis had ever thrown at me. Two weeks ago I caused a woman's death. Two weeks ago, I was in Gotham."</p><p>Clark Kent gets involved in diamonds, murder, sex and love in Gotham's dark streets, with Gotham's prince, Bruce Wayne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. High Society

**Author's Note:**

> I debated archiving this or not, because it was never finished, though we actually did get most of the mysteries solved (saving the final confrontation), and I keep hoping to come back to it. *smiles ruefully* So ... I'm putting it up, and maybe I'll get back around to it one of these days -_-;

There was a package waiting for me on my desk this morning. Not at the front desk, you understand, where the postman would have left it. On _my_ desk, where no-one without a pass could have reached. That made me wary, right from the start. Made Lois wary too, come to that. We ain't either of us fools. In fact, the pair of us make one of the best investigative reporting teams in the world, handling everything from international crime to Metropolitan politics. Definitely the best team operating out of the Metropolis branch of the Daily Planet. And all that experience makes a body careful, you know?

Whatever concern we may have had turned out to be unwarranted, though. When I peeled back the layers of paper, opened the long shoe box they contained, the ticking bomb of our imaginations turned out to be nothing more sinister than a rose. At least, to Lois it wasn't sinister, nothing more than an excuse to send me sly and knowing looks. I knew better.

The black bloom drew a lot of admiring attention, especially from the ladies of the office, and a whole slew of giggled questions about who my secret admirer might be. I wondered what they'd say if I told them the truth. That it was a goodbye present, from another man in another city. The man with the lonely eyes. That it was a reminder, of one of the worst and best times of my life, two weeks ago this day.

Two weeks ago I walked the darkest city in America. Two weeks ago I met the man of my dreams. Two weeks ago I was caught up in a web of treachery and murder to rival the best Raymond Chandler novel, embroiled in a story that beat out anything Metropolis had ever thrown at me. Two weeks ago I caused a woman's death. Two weeks ago, I was in Gotham.

My name is Clark Kent. And this is the story of what happened those four January nights in Gotham. Four nights that changed my world forever.

***

It was a cold evening in Gotham the day we blew into town. A cold day for a cold city. If you've never walked the streets of Gotham, you won't know what I mean, but it's the truth. The Black Heart of America, they call her, the darkest city on the eastern seaboard, a raddled, schizophrenic old whore of a town, reaching up with broken, bejewelled fingers to grasp the sky. A city of beggars and billionaires, of psychopaths and philanthropists, of monsters and madmen and crazed clowns, and the ordinary, everyday folk just trying to stay alive. She has a pulse, Gotham, a dark and bloody thing throbbing beneath your feet as you walk her alleyways and avenues. The most criminal city in America, and I can quote you any crime statistic you care to name to prove it. More than that, I've seen it. Been a part of it.

But that first evening, I wasn't to know that. That evening, as the news blimp carried Lois and myself to the grand gala on the Gotham Towers Hotel, all I knew was that I was never going to look good in a suit, and that Lois was just itching to make trouble. The big glittering do we were heading for, with dignitaries and high-ups from all over the east coast, didn't sit well over the filth and crime of lower Gotham, and Lois had a stack of reports in her head just waiting to jump an unwary socialite. Like I said, Gotham's a schizophrenic old dame, but the higher you rise into her bright lights, the more the corruption and filth of the lower levels cling to your heels. There's no escape from crime in Gotham. None.

That night, though, she decided to be kind to us. As kind as she ever got, anyway. She wasn't so kind to everyone at that party, but that came later. First, you got to picture that place, that penthouse shindig. It was something to see.

When Gotham throws a party, she certainly does it in style. She has money to burn, seeded up from lowly corruption as well as honest enterprise, and she puts it out in style. There's a hard edge to the dazzle and shine of her elite, a sheen of diamond purity over a corrupt and rotten heart, and it showed that night. Walking into that room, you felt like Midas himself, like everything you touched turned to gold and gems beneath you, even as it died.

Great crystal chandeliers cast their shimmering light over the crowd through the cigarette haze, while big band jazz poured smokily out into the ballroom to mingle with the babble of inanities and the tinkling of polite female laughter. Dancers kept up a steady circulation at the center, pulling the rest of the crowd around it like so much social flotsam, and that great cycling mass was a-glitter with jewels, and beauties, and sober young men in their slim suits, and the more florid wear of the older generation. Champagne and brandy flowed like water, and the heated press of bodies seemed to float in a sea of gentle intoxication. I felt constricted just looking at it.

Lois, on the other hand, dived in without a qualm, elbowing for room where she needed it, flirting casually with any piece that caught her eye, smiling that sharp and predatory smile of hers at any bejewelled female that dared to try and ensnare her in pointless conversation. She cut a fine figure indeed, scything her way through the crowd, flaunting her tight, blackclad curves wherever it could provide a tactical advantage to do so, the bright calculation behind her eyes singling out the night's victims.

Is it any wonder I'm in such awe of her?

I wasn't the only one who noticed her that evening. Not half an hour into the proceedings, she had a devoted little coterie of besotted menfolk at her elbows, silly young pups who smiled desperately as she cut them down with velvet-lined repartie in front of their fellows, hunting for the real alpha in that dazzled pack. And she wasn't long in finding him. From my tentative perch over by the buffet, I had a fine view as the pack all but dissipated around her, and he stepped in.

You'd be hard pressed to find a woman in Gotham who wouldn't swoon for that man. Bruce Wayne, the biggest billionaire of them all, the playboy of the western world. Unlike the title character of that fine Irish play, however, old Brucie never had to kill his father. Gotham took care of that for him, and took his mother too, for good measure. Not that you'd know it from watching him. By all reports, the man was as shallow as he was rich, and too damned good-looking to care. But there was no denying he was a fine looker of a man, with a strong face, tousled black hair, and a lazy smile. He had the charm to go with it, too, a deft touch with words and a courteous hand. I was looking forward to see how he got on with Lois.

She played it smart, at first, accepting his arm and invitation to dance with a cool smile and easy appraisal, and got a flash of those perfect pearly whites as a reward. I think I was the only one in the room who caught her slight roll of the eyes as he looked ahead to lead them onto the dance floor. But I could be wrong.

"Well, there goes another one," came a low voice at my elbow, and I turned sharpish, into two sultry green eyes and a red mouth to make your knees go weak. I blinked a bit, as dazed as a cobra caught in a snakecharmer's gaze, and the woman let out a low rumble of a laugh, and bumped me casually aside with one shapely hip so she could reach the h'or d'oeuvres. I shuffled back in amazement at her audacity, and no little respect for the humour in her acknowledging smile. She scooped up a small pastry, and polished it off in no time at all, taking the time to slowly kiss the crumbs off one delicate red fingernail, and winking at me while she was at it. I pushed my glasses back up my nose, and grinned back. Damn, but she knew how to flirt with a man.

"Selina Kyle," she murmured richly, holding out one pale hand for me to kiss, like I was an old-fashioned knight in shining armour. It would have been churlish of me to refuse the gesture.

"Clark Kent."

"The reporter," she exclaimed, with a fair reproduction of delight. "Metropolis' finest, I do declare!"

"Ma'am! You're embarrassing me," I murmured back, smiling, and sketched a little bow for the fun of it. Her eyes sparkled.

"Am I now?" she mused. "Well, we mustn't allow that, must we? Please accept my humble apologies, Mr Kent. Old habits die hard, you know."

"I'm sure they do." I had to laugh. "What was it you were saying, just now?"

The sparkle in her eyes dimmed a bit, and she looked back out over the dance floor. "Oh, yes. I was saying that there falls another fair flower, Mr Kent. You'd think they'd know better. That man is poison."

I followed her gaze to where Bruce Wayne expertly swayed Lois around the dance floor, that easy smile haunting his lips as he appeared to parry her every conversational sally with either the luck of an idiot, or more skill than his reputation would have credited him. I frowned, turning back to the woman at my side.

"What do you mean?"

She flicked a measuring glance at my face, then went back to watching them with a curl of distaste in one corner of her shapely mouth. "Bruce Wayne. The man with a thousand smiles, and all of them false. It's death to a woman's heart to fall for him. He'll buy you any dream you wish, but he won't keep you, and he won't ever give you his heart in return. If your friend over there thinks she's going to be the first to get a hold on him, she's mistaken. No woman can even touch his heart, let alone hold on to it. That's providing he has one left in the first place."

"Voice of experience?" I asked gently, and she blushed a little, letting the acid drop from her tone.

"I thought I had him once, yes," she whispered, one painted hand coming up to brush nervously at the neckline of her satin dress, the red nails fading into its deeper crimson. "I thought he was going to take me away to live in a fairytale castle."

"What happened?" Though I knew, of course. She smiled sadly.

"What always happens, Mr Kent? A young woman's dreams are shattered, and she goes on to live her life anyway. It's the first lesson on the learning curve to survival, especially in Gotham. You never let your dreams blind you to the reality of the world. Walk around blindfolded in this city, and you're like never to see the morning again. I'd get your friend away from him, that's all I'm saying. Before she gets hurt."

I thanked her for the advice, touching her elbow gently in silent commiseration. It ain't easy, to be a beautiful woman in a city like that. The spirit behind those curves too often gets broken out from under you, leaving only a false smile, and the glitter of shattered dreams. Selina Kyle wasn't unique in that, though the humour with which she wore her world-weary cloak marked her out as something special still. But as she sashayed away with a sly smile tossed back for me to catch, I have to admit I wasn't so sure of her advice.

I'd noticed something, you see. Something I don't think anyone ever cared to notice before. Watching my partner dance with this heartless man, I didn't see the hand he curled in perfectly judged possessiveness in the small of her back, or the low and playful laughter that slipped easily from him, or the curve of lips well used to smiling. Looking above all that, watching as he listened with shallow attentiveness to Lois' diatribe on how he was a symbol of the worst forms of social inequality, I only saw that his eyes were the loneliest I'd ever seen. And when he leaned down suddenly, to shut Lois up by the only effective means available to him, there was a kind of sadness to the gesture, if you thought to look for it.

I stared after him as he tapped her nose in a calculatedly patronising manner, and prowled off among his squal of admirers, and wondered why a man with the intelligence to be lonely would bother with the shallow niceties of his public persona. Who had shattered Bruce Wayne's dreams, I wondered. And why?

***

Now that I've introduced you to most of the major players in that night's drama, I guess it's time for you to meet the star of it all. The big man himself, the reason two of Metropolis' best reporters were sipping champagne and making small talk with the gaudy excesses of the Gotham social scene. You didn't think that was our usual milleu, did you? Hardly.

The man in question was one Andre Weiss, a millionaire of mixed European heritage, and a hefty reputation in the gem trade. The 'Diamond Dog', in the colourful terms of the gutter press, and the man we'd all come to see that night. Or rather, the man with the diamond we'd all come to see. Let's be honest here. Weiss himself was a corpulent sack of wind, with an ego only his bank balance matched in size. No-one in their right minds would go anywhere just to see him. But the Sehri-At, the white diamond of the plains, that was a different story. The rock had been in his private collection for years, inherited through three generations of close-minded family, rather dubiously if you believed some of the stories. Gotham was hungry for her first glimpse of the fabled stone, and she wasn't alone.

The gala was the grand unveiling of Weiss' baby, his treasured jewel, where he was finally about to donate the diamond to the Gotham Museum after nearly 100 years of tenacious familial loyalty to its safety. Speculation was rife as to the why of it, though most sources agreed that there was some dark secret buried somewhere to prompt the donation of so valued an item. I was inclined to agree. Nobody parts with something like that until they've got no other avenues open to them. Weiss was in trouble. Everyone knew that. They just didn't know how, or from who. Which was a fact that made what happened that night all the more difficult.

I'm getting ahead of myself, of course, but then you all knew where this event was going to end. The first moment I opened my mouth, you knew this wasn't going to be no happy tale. Well, you were right.

The thing of it was, no-one saw what happened. No-one at all, save the killer and his victim. And Weiss knew it was coming, all right. When they found him, hunting him up for his big speech, nobody had any doubts that he had known what was happening to him.

The screaming alerted us first. Not that I blame her, but the maid had one hell of a pair of lungs, and she wasn't shy about using them. She cannoned into me as she streaked down from the upstairs suite, and when I regained my footing I turned after her with some vague idea that she might need help, but a woman in white had already seen to it, holding the distressed young lady gently by the arm, and murmuring soothing sounds in her ear. Once I saw she was alright, I turned back to the stairs, along with some of the braver souls, or maybe just the morbidly curious ones. Lois was in the front line, of course, having shimmied her way to the fore in a way my greater bulk would never have allowed. Bruce Wayne was at her heels, a man at his side that I recognised as the current Police Commissioner, Gordon. He was the only appropriate police presence at such a prestigious event, a role society dumped on those in authority and lapped up by most of Gotham's civil service. But I had to credit this man with the professionalism that instantly inhabited his every motion.

We expected a murder, after that scream, and we weren't disappointed. We also expected a theft, because it was only sensible, but there things went skewed.

The sight that greeted us as the four of us burst in the door stopped everyone in their tracks, though the pile of pushing bodies behind us caused some upset. An irritated snap of Wayne's fingers sorted that out fairly rapid, though. When pushed, there was an air of command to that playboy that brooked no argument. But the grisly scene itself gave most of the glory-seekers pause.

With economical movements, Gordon moved everybody back to the door. There was quite obviously nothing to be done for Weiss. When a man's head is resting some three feet from his neck, it's a reasonably sure sign that he ain't going to be getting up the next morning. It was a crime-scene, pure and simple. But even that wouldn't have been enough to so completely stun even the cop. No, it was the obscene, and somehow absurd, addition to his bulging features that shocked and horrified. I said the robbery we were expecting didn't happen. That's true. The Sehri-At was right there in front of us.

Protruding from between the man's blued and battered lips, sitting pretty on his blackened tongue.

Gordon had called in a homicide squad in no time at all, no doubt the celebrity status of the victim prompting so rapid a response. But that's just the cynicism talking. That happens to you, in Gotham. No-one stays optimistic very long. And Gordon's boys were professional in every respect. They didn't even sneer too much at all the swooning socialites, and I was tempted to that myself. Most of them hadn't even seen the thing. The mere thought that such unpleasantness could have happened in their austere midst was appalling enough. But even they were better than the avid questions of some, the morbid delight at the scandal that burned in their eyes and fleshy faces. It was enough to turn your stomach, even after the numbing effects of the sight upstairs.

But the night's little dramas weren't quite over yet. Not for me at least. There was one final scene that caught my eye and came back to haunt me in the coming days.

After we'd had our statements taken, as Lois and I were leaving for the apartments we were renting in Gotham for the night, I happened to look into the lounge off the hotel foyer. And I had to stop.

Selina Kyle, vibrant and alluring as she'd been upstairs, was standing in the center of the room, teetering on her high, red heels so she could get right up and spit in her companion's face. In Bruce Wayne's face. And the billionaire didn't even blink, only took hold of one of her wrists and shook her gently. She snarled at him.

"I _told_ you! All that was done, ages ago! I told you, you rich bastard! Now let me the hell go!"

He stared down at her for a long moment, something hard and undefinable in his suddenly glacial eyes, before he silently released her, and stepped back. She backed away from him, never taking her eyes off his face. There was something small about her, in that moment, something fragile, and I was taken by the need to protect her. From him, from whatever haunted her. But Lois was tugging at my arm, and Wayne had turned away, turned back into the hotel, walking away. And she reached out a hand behind his back, a desperate gesture, quickly aborted.

"I was telling the truth, Bruce," she whispered, so low and lost I barely heard her, but he paused in the doorway and half turned, that strange sadness slipping back over his shadowed features.

"I know," was all he said. And it was enough to break her. She watched him leave, shrinking and abandoned, and the proud cast of her features only served to highlight her desolation. That was the last time I ever saw her, before an impatient Lois finally pulled me away, and there's little I've regretted more than that sad and lonely fact. But the night moves in ugly ways in Gotham, and you can't change the past. You can only try to live with it.


	2. Down These Mean Streets

"Hey farmboy! Rise and shine, already!"

I woke the next morning, as usual, to the dulcet tones of Lois in full chipper mode. I wondered briefly about the option of smothering myself with my pillow, but decided against it on the grounds that she'd take it as an insult, and insulting Lois has a nasty way of coming back to haunt a man. The image was pretty alluring for a minute there, before her persistent prompts had me on the floor and shambling towards the door.

"Lois? What the hell time is it?" I asked as I let her in, and grabbed at the files that slid around in a sloppy bundle as she tossed them to me one-handed, the other hand behind her back.

"It's eleven am, Kent! What happened to you? I thought you farmboy types got up with the dawn, and all that." She swept magisterially into my grey sitting room, looking smart in her killer heels, raising one dark eyebrow in askance at my pre-caffeine mess. I shuffled after her, trying to keep a hold on her files while entertaining vivid fantasies of sleep, or a steaming cup of coffee. Whichever arrived first.

"I've no idea, Lois. Maybe it's the air in this city, or something." She grinned.

"Gotham not agreeing with you, Kent? Well, I've got just the thing!" And like a conjurer pulling out her best illusion, she swept her hand out from behind her back, and presented me with a tall, steaming cup of creamy coffee, hot and fresh. The fragrance hit me like a kick in the gut. With another grin and a flourish, she pressed the warm ceramic into my hand, and watched with an indulgent expression as I inhaled the first glorious mouthful.

"Got it from the diner down the street," she explained with a smug look, and settled herself down to lounge casually on my sofa. "They want the mug back when you head out. I said it was a caffeine emergency, and the lovely young man behind the counter understood instantly what I meant. He must have been telepathic!"

I grunted into my coffee. "Knowing you, you could have asked him for a pink monkey, and he'd have tried to get it for you. Not that you'd ever ask. Flirt." Damn, but you had to love the woman. You'd never imagine marrying her, but as a pal she knew no equal, and that was certain.

"My, aren't we grumpy this morning," she smiled, and patted the seat next to her. I sank down, cradling my coffee, and waited for the news bulletin to start.

"I rang up Metropolis while you were out of it, Clark. Had Jimmy do a quick search for me, go back over those files on Weiss we checked before leaving. Turns out our boy has had a long history of dealings with the city of Gotham, and most of them shady."

My hand came up to rub the bridge of my nose before I could stop it. "No offense, Lois, but any idiot could have guessed that after last night."

"Shut up and listen, farmboy. There was some buried stuff, a few deeper secrets. For instance, there was quite a bit of info suggesting that he had a number of dealings with that DA who went nuts about a year back, Harvey Dent. I got hints of entrapment there, but on which side I'm not sure. And he had quite a bit of dough sunk into a nightclub downtown, the Iceberg Lounge, and a number of 'gentlemen's clubs' down in Old Gotham, none of which are exactly on the up 'n' up. But as far as I can gather, he was just funding them. There's no suggestion at all that he was ever more involved than that, and dirty as it is, I can't see him getting killed just for that."

"No," I agreed. "It was far too personal for that. Whoever did that to him sure held one hell of a grudge."

She nodded, that predator's look of avid contemplation on her fine-boned features. "Exactly. I mean, to pass up the Sehri-At when you had it right in your hand ... Whoever it was must have really _hated_ him."

"Or had no need for the money," I mused, and Lois shot me a sharp glance.

"You got something you want to tell me about, Kent?" she murmured dangerously. I shook my head. It was far too early for that. Just a hunch. Something to keep in the back of my skull for awhile, though.

"Well," she muttered, after a long moment of trying to stare a couple of holes through my left temple, "if you're sure. I guess I'll be on my way, then."

I blinked. "Where are you off to?"

She shrugged. "I've got an appointment downtown. Gotta try and bully that Police Commissioner into letting me have access to their old files on Weiss, and the murder notes if I can get them. It's tough going, though. The one time in Gotham's history they have a Police Commissioner with scruples, and it's when I'm trying to work a story in his town!"

I stared. "A Gotham official with morals?"

She grinned. "I know. Talk about your contradiction in terms! And he ain't just putting it on, either. The stubborn bastard actually believes what he's saying, worse luck. I tried sweet-talking him on the telephone earlier, and he just wouldn't play ball. 'The press will be informed of the essentials in due course." Phah!"

"Lois," I began, incredulously, detecting a worrying hint of respect in her tone. "Please don't tell me you're going to _flirt_ with the chief of Gotham police!" A sudden parade of images went through my mind, with Lois in a prison jumpsuit foremost among them, brought up on a charge of sexual harrassment of a city official, and then the picture of the tired-faced, rumpled man of the night before staring in fatherly bemusement as she crossed her legs silkily at his desk. Lois just dropped her chin into her hand and stared sulkily at the floor, tapping lightly at her cheek with one tiny fingernail.

"Nah. I'd never get away with it. Besides, I think he's got a wife stashed in the suburbs somewhere."

"You needn't sound so disappointed about it!"

She stood up, clipping me playfully on the ear. "But I _am_ disappointed, Kent," she pouted, then sobered again. "If I could flirt with him I might be able to weasel my way into his confidences. I don't like having a front row seat to a murder, and then not be able to follow it up just because some official gets a case of conscience on me! Still, I have to give him credit. There's not many men who can out-stubborn Lois Lane, even for this long." I could swear she liked the old bastard. "You coming?"

I shook my head and sat back in amazement as she strolled thoughtfully out the door. I had a few theories of my own to check out first. But I did make sure to call after her. "I'm not bailing you out if he arrests you for gross indecency, Lois!" She waved back with a grin, and sauntered off down the stairs, her hat at that jaunty angle that made me think I needed a bigger build to carry off the image of her protector. Not that she needed one, of course. But it's the principal of the thing.

***

The Gotham Towers was pretty much a wash-out, as far as getting information on the murder. After being grilled by the police, and suffering the unwanted questions of anyone with a morbid interest and time to spare, the staff were tight as clams and about as well-disposed. I did strike kinda lucky on my other topic of interest, though. One of the waitresses in the downstairs lounge had caught the tail-end of Bruce and Selina's little spat, same as me, and kept an eye on the distressed woman.

"I'm not surprised he left her, though," the perky little blonde drawled disparagingly. "A woman like that."

"A woman like what?" I was a bit sharp with her, I'll admit.

"Well now, don't get excited. I just meant a woman with a reputation for skating as dubious as Selina Kyle's deserves every heartbreak she gets. Trying to drag Mr Wayne down to her level! No, she's just not the right sort for a man of Mr Wayne's class."

I stared at her. I thought about Selina's easy flirtation and casual charm, about the pain she let slip around the other man, about her proud despair in this very lounge the previous evening. I thought about her sassy confidence and the weary humour of her smile, and the sadness in her eyes when she looked at Wayne. And him, too. He'd been cold and angry, but there had been no marks on Selina's arm when he released her, no harshness in the way he held her. He hadn't lashed out at her attacks, only accepted them with the tired resignation a man gets when he's hurting.

I didn't know what had happened between them, but this little worker was way off. I'd have told her that, too, but I doubt a lady that single-minded would've listened to social advice from a blow-in like me. I walked away, rather than keep listening to her little spiel on what a man like Wayne needed in a woman. I wasn't going to get anything more out of that place.

Which left me high and dry, with only one place to go unless I wanted to watch Lois try to pull a fast one on Gordon. And while it might be entertaining to watch her get ejected forcibly from a building, I wasn't exactly in the mood. So. Wayne Manor it was. I wanted a talk with our elusive Mr Wayne.

Unfortunately, getting to the man wasn't nearly so easy as it sounded. When the taxi it'd taken me a straight hour to flag down finally pulled up at the bottom of his drive, my first impression was that if I hadn't already seen him, I'd think he was trying to compensate for something. The term 'fortress' came to mind, and the whole place just reeked of old money, like if you broke open a wall you'd find the green stuff in the mortar. And maybe a couple of skeletons, too, while you were at it.

"Right. Wayne Manor, like ya asked." The cabbie broke into my thoughts with an impatient Gotham drawl. "You getting out, or what?"

"You're not bringing me up the drive?", I asked, staring at the mile-long strip of gravel. He shook his head emphatically.

"Not on Wayne turf, kid. Not on your life."

"Why not!"

"'Cause I'll get stared at, that's why not!"

I blinked. "Excuse me?" And so help me, that big bruiser went cherry-pink with shame.

"It's the old guy," he muttered. "The one they got on the doors up there. He stares at you if you drop in uninvited."

"Stares at you," I repeated, and he flinched at my tone.

"Look, mister, you ain't got no clue what I'm talking about, so shut yer yap. When that man looks at you like that, you don't ever want to do what caused it again, alright? It's like he can see yer soul, and when he raises that eyebrow of his, you just know you ain't measured up. It's like, I dunno, havin' a priest shake his head at you, or somethin'. You're lucky I brought you this far!"

I sat back in my seat, and watched in blank amazement as the back of his beefy neck went slowly red with shame. He refused to meet my eyes. And he made no move to start the cab. I could have just got out and walked, but that drive was long, and to be quite frank I'd never heard such a crock in my life. But before I could open my mouth, he stiffened, and I looked back up at the house. There was a car pulling away down the drive.

We watched it coming towards us, the cabbie and I, and for some reason I ain't sure of even now, my gut clenched in sudden nervousness. And when the great black Packard limo drew up alongside, and the tinted driver's window rolled down, my new friend practically quailed, and I all but joined him. The dignified older gentleman in the other car raised his infamous eyebrow.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" he asked, politely.

"No," I shook my head, very carefully not looking at my companion. "No, just getting our bearings. Little lost, is all."

"A Gotham cab, lost?" There was just a hint of a smile in his respectful tone.

"New on the job, sir," came a gruff voice from in front of me, and I smiled desperately in agreement. Our opponent gave us an indulgent look.

"Are you quite sure, young sir? I do believe I remember you, from a month or two back?"

"Not me, sir. Maybe it's my cousin you remember? Mother always said I looked just like him." Smile and nod, smile and nod.

"Indeed." He didn't believe a word of it. "Well, if you're sure ..." We nodded rapidly. "I'll bid you good day, gentlemen. I do hope you find what you're looking for."

The pair of us slumped in relief as the window went back up, and the muscular car pulled away towards the city. The look on my cabbie's face was smug when he turned to look at me, and I had to hide my smile.

"See what I mean now, pal?" he asked.

"Clear as crystal. Now hadn't we better hurry?"

His face went wary. "Hurry?"

"Of course. Don't want to lose him, do we? Not much point in a tail-job if you lose the mark." His face went a rather unflattering shade, but the twenty I waved at him put a certain gleam in his eye that let me know I had him made.

We set off back into Gotham, the black Packard in our sights the whole way.

***

They must've known we were tailing them, but I figured they'd at least allow for the possibility that we were trying to find our way back to the city, poor lost boys that we were. Once back inside the city proper, we pulled back a bit and let them have their head. After a while, though, they started to slow down, searching the streets, and I had my new friend pull over so I could get out and try following them on foot. He was all too happy to see me go, and take the twenty as a keepsake. We were heading into Old Gotham by that stage, and he was starting to get a bit jumpy. Not that I blamed him. Where the rest of the Black City held her criminal court at night, the old town wore her shroud of menace even in broad daylight. I couldn't help but wonder what squeaky clean Bruce Wayne was up to down in the slums.

As evening started to draw in, and the night-people began to move out onto the streets, the Packard started drawing attention and, smart sharper that he was, Wayne hopped out in an alley behind one of the larger gin joints, a hefty bag over one shoulder. The limo pulled away again almost instantly, and its erstwhile occupant set off deeper into the creeping alleys of the old town, heading north towards the Red Light district and Amusement Mile.

I stayed on him as long as I could, conscious all the while that we were heading into unknown territory, at least for me. Wayne seemed perfectly at home, a suspicious fact in and off itself, but every small street and twisting alley was completely unfamiliar to me, and after a while they started to blur into each other, a dark sameness filled with filth and shadows and blank, unfriendly faces, and I realised that without the beacon figure of the billionaire and his bag ahead of me, I was utterly lost.

And no sooner had I thought it, than I turned a corner after him, and found him gone.

I turned quickly in place, scanning back down behind me, and off into the smaller alley to my right, but there was no sign of the man at all. I checked above me, searching the fire escapes, got nothing. The rusting doors set into the walls to either side were long since rusted to their frames, or their doorways piled high with filth and human garbage. No escape there. Panicking slightly, I darted along the length of the block to the next junction, in case he'd simply sped up, but the distinctive figure was nowhere in sight. I'd lost him.

And in the process, I'd lost myself. In Old Gotham. As the night pulled darkness down over her streets, and brought the specters of blood and violence in behind it. Not the best career move I've ever made.

There was no point trying to find Wayne. My best bet was to try and retrace my steps, find my way out of this labyrinthine stew, and hopefully before the real hardcases started coming out. Not that I was afraid of getting hurt, per say. Whatever Lois may think, I'm no pushover, and I had a few tricks up my sleeve that no-one would suspect. At least, no-one I'd ever met. The problem was the fuss it would start. Even in Gotham, they take notice when some blow-in starts beating on the hoods and hardcases of the old town, and with everything I had going on, I couldn't afford that kind of attention.

But nothing in Gotham is ever bloody easy, and while I'm no slacker for directions, even the best of memories requires some manner of landmark to orientate around, and the city seemed determined to confuse. I'll bet there are people living their whole lives in Old Gotham who still get lost when the mood strikes her to make them. But at least they knew enough people to stop and ask. The hard stares I got pitched whenever I started to approach someone quickly put any thought of that from my mind. And after a while, I started noticing that I was being tailed myself.

I noticed it first when one of the pro skirts started to give me the spiel, before her eyes flicked west and she shied back. The streets started thinning around me, just a touch, as people gave me that little bit of extra room to get shot in. Someone'd sized me up for prey, and the wary had picked up on it, the way smaller predators scatter when a shark swims by. My obvious confusion and good clothes made me an instant mark, and really I was lucky to have gotten as far as I did before getting picked up. Any hopes I'd had of a clean sneak evaporated, and I started looking for a good place to turn on whoever it was.

A blind alley would be best. Let them think they'd got me pinned, that they had all the advantages, and it'd give me some cover so I could do what I had to do. It shouldn't be too hard. They wouldn't be expecting what I could do to them, and there were few things a Gotham hood was likely to have on his person that could do me any permanent damage. But I wasn't looking forward to it. Strange as it may sound for someone who's so good at it, but violence repulses me. Don't mean I won't do what I gotta do, but I don't have to like it.

I headed off what passed for a main thoroughfare in Old Gotham, down an alley and out onto one of the smaller streets behind a can-house. Two men peeled off behind me. I picked up the pace a bit, like I was scared, and they matched it instantly, dropping all pretense of disinterest. The chase was on. I saw a blind alley up ahead, and angled deliberately into it, wondering if they'd pick up on the intent behind the move and back off. No such luck. Either they were pretty dumb, or just didn't care what I thought I could do.

But someone picked up on it, alright. Just as I was about to cut in and turn, a man stepped nonchalantly out into my path, and I had to draw up sharply or I would've cannoned into him. A brief spurt of amazement went through me, that they had been so sure of my path as to have someone lie in wait, when I realised that persuit behind me had stopped also. Sending the newcomer a wary glance, I looked back over my shoulder to find my pursuers frozen, staring at him with wary unease.

"Either you're tougher than you look, kid, or you're just plain stupid," the interloper drawled easily, breaking through the tense silence. "Don't you ever look where you're going?" I stared dumbly at him as he brushed past me to get a better look at my pursuers. "Little out of your way, aren't you boys?"

"We saw 'im first, fair and square," the younger of the two spat, but his companion quickly laid a cautioning hand on his arm.

"Out alone today?" he asked, nervously. My new friend smiled sharply.

"You don't see anyone with me, do ya?" And something in his tone had all of us sending jumpy glances into the shadows, waiting for some invisble bogeyman to jump out. The pair of them flinched back, and shook their heads uneasily. "Well, there ya go. You got business my way, boys?"

"Ah, no. Not tonight. No." They were backing away as they said it, and he smiled knowingly.

"On your way then. And send my regards to Ma Peters, won't you?" One last nod, and they ran for it.

The man turned back slowly, to give me the once over, and I took the opportunity to take his measure too. He was a slim man, somewhere in his late twenties, but with that tired look of someone who's been around the block a few times, maybe done some time. His face was mostly shadowed by a fedora and glasses, but a narrow mouth with a narrow mustache was visible, and a match bobbed up and down between his teeth. Combined with the narrow brown suit with its red shirt, the overall effect was sharp with heavy overtones of sleaze. The guy looked every inch the small-time hood. Not the kind of guy I'd expect to lend me a helping hand. Or to convincingly scare off any opposition.

"You look a little lost, kid," he drawled, that laconic Gotham edge to his accent. "What's a blow-in like you doing down the slums this time of the evening?"

I bristled a bit, but since I was quite visibly not doing so hot, I had to let it go. "I was looking for someone. I got a little lost."

He smiled sharply. "Ya think? Who you lookin' for, a dame? Plenty of action 'round here without going after someone specific, you know."

"A man, actually," I snapped. His smile faded a bit.

"You're in the wrong place, then, boyo. You want to go east a couple of blocks, if you're looking for that kind of action. It's bust season, though, so I'd leave off if I were you. Come back another time, and in some other outfit, ya hear?"

I stared blankly at him for a minute, before his meaning filtered through, and I blushed. "I didn't mean it that way."

He stared back for a minute, watching the red rise up my cheeks, then smiled again. A different smile, this time, more open and with a hint of camraderie. "No, I don't suppose you did at that. You got a name, kid?"

"Ah, Kent. Clark Kent." And I held out a hand for him to shake. It seemed the natural thing to do, and he took it easily, a sly grin lighting his tired face. He had a firm grip, for all he looked like a lightweight.

"Nice to meet ya, Clark Kent. Name's Matches. Matches Malone." He slung a friendly arm over my shoulder, and I realised that his slight appearance was deceptive. The slick tailoring of his suit made him look slimmer than he was, and there was a strong build disguised beneath that sleazy outer appearance. "Stick with me, kid. I'll show you around, help you get your bearings. You hungry?"

I blinked, a little uncertain about this sudden familiarity, but at his reminder my stomach decided to make it known that I hadn't eaten since just after leaving the Gotham Towers, some six hours ago now, and I was beginning to feel it. I'd lost Wayne, so there was nothing urgent I needed to get to, and he seemed okay. At the very least, he might help me get out of Old Gotham, and there was obviously something about him that discouraged the local heavies, though damned if I could tell what it was from looking at him. So, really, what was the harm?

"Starving," I answered, and followed readily at his quick grin as he started off down the street, one arm still wrapped in a friendly manner around my shoulders.

Gotham had decided to let me survive a while yet.


	3. Night On The Town

Malone steered me through the darkening labyrinth with all the natural confidence of a native, dropping that guiding arm after a while to simply walk beside and one step ahead of me. I frowned at that, because while it was a natural enough position for a guide to adopt, there was a kind of casual arrogance to the way he did it that made me feel like one of those bodyguards that follow high-class glitter and lowdown mob bosses around. A pace behind and to the side, watching.

The way the street people let him through, though, with either unease or friendly acceptance, gave the lie of that thought. Matches didn't need nobody to take care of him. Not in the old town, at least. It was his turf, and he was completely at ease there, sidling sideways through the shadows and leering casually at every hooker we passed. And often as not, they gave him a skittering smile back, or a finger flipped easily in discouragement. He was part of the scene in Old Gotham, obviously not someone you messed with, but not an active threat either. At home.

And with me trailing after him like a stray puppy. I shook my head, feeling doubly useless, and tried not to let his image down. It was easier than before, to look like I knew where I was going and what I was doing. I did. I was following Malone, getting grub, and hopefully the hell out of the old town. Without the earlier confusion, my natural build lent itself to a far more impressive picture, and in combination with that and Malone's presence at my side, my good clothes became less the sign of a mark, and more the sign of a business man checking out his old town assets. Not that I was particularly happy to play that part, but it beat having to pound on would-be muggers.

After a while, though, the streets seemed to widen, become less filthy and less drowned in human misery. Malone shot me a backward glance, and grinned at my obvious relief as we finally shook the clinging grasp of the old town from our feet, and stepped out into the bigger city. Back out to where you could call up a nightshift taxi if you needed one. Out to where any attackers were going to be professional criminals, rather than the lowgrade desperates that inhabited the old quarter. Back out into civilisation, in fact, with all that it entailed.

And the first thing it appeared to entail, at least by Malone's lights, was a bar.

He paused in the doorway, waiting patiently while I took in the look of the place, the shabby, well lived-in exterior with no visible name, only a faded sign that appeared to show an illustration of a pocketwatch and a chess piece rook, whatever they were meant to mean. I looked back at him in blank confusion.

"Where are we?"

The match slid to one side of his mouth in a conspiratorial grin, and he laid a hand on my shoulder to guide me in the door. "Kid," he said, as my eyes struggled to accommodate the sudden surge of light, "welcome to John's. Best place in town, for folks like us. Come on in."

I stepped in, and found myself on the top landing of a polished wood staircase, leading down into what looked like an old speakeasy, left over from the bad old days of Gotham Prohibition, now redone to suit more modern tastes. The light that had seemed so bright from outside resolved itself into the muted gleam of old-fashioned lamps, complemented here or there with red-papered shades. A band played quietly on a small stage at the back of the room. The low murmur of conversation dipped as the patrons caught sight of us, then came back up again as Matches took my arm gently and nudged me down the steps and towards the bar.

The barman, a calm sort with the kind of face it was difficult to put an age on, drifted over as we slid into a couple of barstools in one corner, Malone laying his hat on the bar. It was strange to see him suddenly bereft of it. Matches smiled widely in greeting, showing a dazzling collection of stained teeth, and held out a hand to clasp the man's arm in a gesture of friendship.

"John! How ya doin'? Don't suppose you got any grub for an old friend? The kid and me could use a bit of something."

The man shrugged one shoulder fluidly, but didn't answer, instead raising one brown eyebrow in askance at the splinter of wood still bobbing up and down between Matches teeth. Malone frowned in confusion for a minute, then his face cleared and a hand darted up to pull the offending item out of his mouth. He grinned sheepishly, and handed the match to the barman, chewed end first. John took the soggy thing gingerly between two fingers, and disposed of it neatly behind the bar, returning with a look of gentle satisfaction. Matches dipped his head in shame.

"Sorry 'bout that, John old mate. I forgot again."

"Indeed," came a warmly amused voice from down the bar. "You do that all too often, friend. One of these days, I think John should arrange to have you more pointedly reminded." The older blond gentleman grinned cheerfully at Matches' obvious affront, and raised his glass in salute to our impassive barman, who smiled gently in return.

"I don't believe that would be necessary," the unflappable man commented mildly, and nodded to both Malone and myself as he wandered off behind the bar on some errand of his own. I stared after him, then pulled my attention back to the confrontation beside me. Matches slid out of his seat, and stalked slowly up to the nattily dressed interloper, leaving me stiff and uneasy at our side of the bar. The blond only smiled at him, expression clear and innocent, one hand reaching up to delicately adjust his green silk tie as the other expertly swirled the golden liquid in his glass. Malone glared down at him.

"You've gone awful confident all of a sudden, Alan," he growled, and I stiffened as I caught sight of motion behind him, coming half out of my seat as a shorter, burly man with a pugilist's face and carriage came up behind him and reached out to grasp Malone firmly by the shoulder. My new friend went suddenly and completely still.

"And you're getting awful careless all of a sudden," the pugilist commented gruffly. "Why, I coulda killed ya twice over before you even knew I was there!"

The brown-suited figure was silent, but I saw small tremors begin to run through the line of his shoulders, and I moved forward to intervene before I realised what was happening. Malone, shoulders still shaking with laughter, turned rapidly on his heel, one hand reaching up to catch the hand that had imprisoned him and pumping it vigorously, while behind him this Alan fellow smiled indulgently.

"Ted!" the Gothamite exclaimed, with what sounded like genuine pleasure slipping through his sardonic drawl. "Ya old fool, I didn't know you were in town!"

"You didn't know I was coming up behind ya, either. What's up, kid? You getting sloppy on me?"

"Oh, I rather doubt that," Alan spoke up from behind them, and nodded his head wryly at Malone's left sleeve when his bruiser of a pal glanced at him. Ted turned back, eyebrows raised, and Matches just shrugged, the motion sending a neat little curved blade slipping down the cuff to rest negligently in his palm, disguised by the curl of nicotine-stained fingers. The pugilist stared in consternation at the deadly little item, thinking how much damage it might've done with the merest backward flick of his opponent's wrist.

"You never did catch on to that whole 'fighting fair' deal, did'ya, Malone?" he murmured in frank amazement, and clapped the slighter man heartily on the shoulder as the steel vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Matches flashed his yellowing teeth in a grin.

"Fightin' you? You think I'm crazy or what, you old tomcat?"

"I'm sure the thought has occured," their seated companion murmured, and smiled suddenly in my direction. "Why don't you and your new friend come and join us, Malone? You've yet to introduce us, I might add." Matches turned back to me with a look of shamed surprise, and tilted his head in what might have been pleasure when he found me on my feet and at his back. He nodded to me, and I stepped forward hesitantly to join them.

"Heya kid. Sorry to give ya the cold shoulder like that." He slung his arm around my shoulders again in apology, and gestured me forward. "This here sharp dresser with the quick mouth is Alan Scott. He works uptown. And the pugilist goes by Ted Grant, or 'you bloody bastard' to his friends." He pointed them out, then swept his arm back towards me, in an odd little half-bow. "And this here, gents, is Clark Kent, blow-in and alley-spotter extraordinaire."

I couldn't help but wince a bit at that, but held out my hand anyway. First to Alan, who gave me a firm grip and a friendly smile, then to Ted, who wrung my wrist heartily and would probably have slapped my shoulder had Matches not still had his arm drapped around it.

"Clark Kent," the older man mused. "I do believe I've heard that name before. You aren't the Clark Kent that wrote the story on the misappropriation of war funds by Senator Keeling a couple of years back? Out of the Daily Planet?"

I nodded, trying not to flinch as Matches turned to stare in amazement. "A news hawk! I'll be damned!" Scott simply smiled in satisfaction, and no little respect, which had me nearly blushing with pride, for some reason. I don't know why, but the man made you want to be worth his respect.

"I take it then that you ain't be travellin' with him long, Matches?" Grant grinned slyly, and Malone shrugged.

"Found 'im taking a header into a blind alley to play with Ma Peters' boys, down the old town. On purpose. Seemed a decent enough kid, so I thought I'd lend him a hand, maybe show him the error of his ways." He turned to me and his voice took on a sanctimonious cast. "Someone should teach the youngsters of today that brawling in the streets is a sin."

I flushed, but Scott snorted into his drink, and Ted gave our preacher a playful tap on the shoulder that sent him back onto the barstool behind him. Matches landed with a surprised oomph, and shot the old pugilist a glare that promised dire retribution, but that soon faded into a wry grin.

"Meant to ask ya, Teddie-boy," he drawled. "What're you doin' back in my neck of the woods?"

The burly man turned back from giving me a weighing look, and glanced at Scott before answering. "Came for a chat with the man in green over here," he said gruffly, and there was some meaning behind those words that translated itself instantly to them, and left me completely in the dark.

"Ah," Malone mused, and turned to Scott. "You'll be out of town for a while, then?"

Scott nodded, and looked at him sharply. "Why? You in trouble, Matches? Need me to stay for a bit?" But Malone shook his head even as Grant looked set to chime in.

"Nah. Ain't nothing I can't handle. Told you before, old man. I don't back down on a responsibility." And there was a faint flinch from Scott, but he nodded, something old and sad in his eyes.

"And he will not be alone," a mellow voice interrupted from behind us, matter-of-factly. "He is never as alone as he thinks." Our barman had returned, and he had with him two plates of something hot and fragrant. Matches' eyes followed their progress avidly, and I confess mine weren't all that far behind. "Compliments of Ma Hinkle, gentlemen. And try to be neat, Matches."

The street crook swung around the stool to face the bar, his glasses gleaming in the steam from the plate. "Neat as you like, John. I ain't lettin' a scrap escape me!"

John smiled at him, a little sadly, I thought, and beckoned to me to take the other place. As I sat down, he laid a hand on my arm suddenly, catching me off guard, and stared intently at me for a long minute. The others stopped to watch, Matches hastily swallowing a mouthful. I froze, wondering if I'd done something wrong, but a second later the barman withdrew his hand, and nodded to himself. I rubbed at my arm. The man had a hell of a grip.

"Something wrong, John?" Scott asked in concern, shooting me an appraising glance.

"Not at all," he answered beatifically, and smiled warmly at me. "He'll fit right in."

"One of yours, John?" Matches asked, around the mouthful of stew he'd scooped up once it had become apparent that I wasn't about to be kicked out on my ear, but there was an edge to it, a need to know. I frowned.

"Yes, and no," John answered.

"What the hell's that mean?" Malone growled, and John turned to stare at him, his air of imperturbability suddenly menacing, and the crook dipped his head in respect. John nodded to him, as calm as he'd been a moment before, as if that sudden threat had never been, and turned back to me.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Kent," he murmured gently, holding out his hand properly this time. I shook it gingerly, confused, but the others had settled back and seemed all at once to be more comfortable around me, as if I'd passed some crucial test. Scott smiled at me.

"And you, Mr ..." I started, and realised I hadn't the first clue what the man's name was. He smiled.

"Jones. But you may call me John." He nodded gently at me. "If you ever need help in Gotham, Mr Kent, you will find it here. Any friend of Malone's is welcome behind my doors." And he moved off again, only pausing to touch an equally confused Matches lightly on the shoulder. The brown-suited man stared after him in bemusement, then turned back to stare at me as if I'd grown a second head. I noticed suddenly that his eyes, behind those disguising lenses, were a startlingly clear blue, and had a desolate air to them that sent a crazy tendril of deja-vu through me.

I shrugged uneasily, and the moment broke. Malone turned back to his dinner with all the grace and refinement of a starving man, but I happened to look beyond him and caught the eyes of the other two. They were watching us with twin looks of appraisal, and maybe the tiniest hint of hope.

I wondered suddenly what the hell I fallen into, when I'd no business being there at all, and didn't even know Malone, let alone the others. And yet, they seemed to know me, and to have a far better idea of what I was doing in Gotham than I did. For a minute there, I felt a great web draw around me, the Black City reaching out to wrap me in her deadly embrace, and draw me down into something I didn't understand, and might not survive. She's a sly dame, Gotham, and once she has the smallest hold on you, it gets so you'd have to sell your soul to escape. And even that ain't a sure bet, when the devil himself slides his bony hoof up her silken, decaying skirts in frank admiration.

And in that instant as I thought it, as if to show me there was light in even the blackest of cities, an angel chose to walk into the bar. Her blonde hair swinging gently with her rolling gait, drawing attention to curves wonderfully outlined by the black dress beneath her dusty blue jacket, the woman stepped right up to the bar without hesitation, ignoring the instant attention she received, and hailed John.

"Shot on the rocks, John. It's that day again." And every man save me in our little party flinched, as he pulled a bottle from beneath the bar, and poured her drink with just a hint of reverence. I turned to look at Matches, wondering what was going on. He just shook his head sadly, and watched as she tossed the whiskey back in a single shot, grimacing.

She set the glass back on the bar with a determined click, and John removed it gently, pausing to give her hand a gentle pat. She smiled tiredly at him, nodding as if to tell him all was well, and turned to us.

"Hey boys," she murmured softly, a smoky curl to her voice from the whiskey burn. Ted stepped forward, holding out one rawboned hand to take her more slender one, and guide her to the seat Alan had vacated. The two men took up positions to her left, while Malone turned in his seat to face her right profile, and though the little cluster they made should have looked like a queen with her courtiers, with that positioning, instead it looked like they were sheltering her against some chill wind. I felt like an intruder, with not the first clue what was going on.

"Where's the squirt?" Ted asked gruffly, and a small smile flitted over her tired face.

"I left her with Renee for the night. She's minding Suzette's girls, and thought Dinah might like to have fun with them tonight. Dinah agreed." There was a wealth of caring in her voice at the words, and I knew she was talking about her daughter. A woman only talks like that, with that much love, about her child. "She was happily settled in when I left for the evening, telling Rene to be careful hanging up her cape." Alan smiled.

I shuffled my feet uneasily, thinking I maybe shouldn't be listening to this. There was an simple intimacy to it, the kind I hadn't seen in a long while, since moving to Metropolis. It made me remember that I needed to give Ma and Pa a call.

The woman turned to Scott, smiling. "I heard that programme of yours on the wire the other night, Alan. About Gordon and what he's doing for the GCPD. Jack would've been proud."

He smiled, and dipped his head in acknowledgment. "We all do what we can," he murmured, and as if those words suddenly reminded her of something, she turned and reached out to clasp Malone's arm. He stiffened under her hand, looking uncomfortable.

"Matches. I meant to tell you. Your boys, up on the Mile. They won't be moving for another week or so. I checked up on 'em earlier."

He shook his head. "Aw, Birdie, you didn't have to do that. Not today." She smiled sadly.

"You think Jack would've had it any different?"

He looked away, and there was a hesitancy to his voice when he answered. "Don't know about that, Birdie. I ain't at all sure your man woulda liked you helping out someone like me."

She smiled again, and this time there was something gentle in it, a kind of wry humour that edged out the sadness a little. "Jack would've liked you, Matches. I know he would. Okay, he'd've beat the snot outta you the first time he met you, but he'd have liked you. The job meant something to him, keeping the city safe. I guess that's why he ... I guess that's why."

She stopped, swallowing, and Malone patted her hand gingerly, almost panicking as she looked set to cry. I knew what he meant. Dames crying always made me feel like heading for the hills. What're you supposed to do for them? I guess maybe that's why I always liked Lois. Anybody made her cry, and it'd have gotten to the point where killing them was a reasonable option, and one she'd appreciate.

But this Birdie looked set from the same mould, a tough cookie, and the threatened tears disappeared as she shook her head decisively, and looked over at where I stood shuffling my feet on the edge of their circle.

"Who's ... Who's your friend, Matches?" she asked, a catch still in her throat, but fading fast. I stepped forward and held out my hand to shake. She took it firmly.

"Clark Kent," I murmured, and sketched the little bow I'd given Selina the night before, under such different circumstances, but the same thought was behind it. There was something about Gotham dames that made you want to protect them, even when you knew they didn't need nobody's pity.

"Dinah Lance," she smiled back, and I blinked at the smoke that had slipped back into her voice. "Pleased to meet you. Any friend of this reprobate is a friend of mine, Mr Kent." I nodded. Looked like that was news to Malone, too. Then she stood, brushing instinctively at her cheeks, even though she hadn't actually shed a tear, and straightened her jacket decisively. "Okay, John. I'm ready."

I wasn't the only one taken aback by her sudden change of tone, but John was as unflappable as always. "The stage is set, whenever you want to head up," he answered. Ted looked up at this.

"Surely you ain't making the girl work _tonight_ , John?" he asked, incredulously. John turned to face him calmly.

"If Miss Lance wishes to sing, then I am not about to stand in her way," he said quietly, and the pugilist's indignation wilted. Dinah grinned at him, laying a calming hand on his arm.

"I'm fine, Ted," she murmured. "It helps to be working, you know? Keeping my mind from dwelling on what was never gonna be. I can't change the past. I just gotta live here and now. And that means singing. Okay?" He nodded, and she turned to me. "You staying, sugar?"

I blinked, looking desperately over at Malone, who shrugged unhelpfully. "I, ah, I don't know, Miss Lance. I should ... I should maybe get back."

She smiled, and dipped her head to look up at me through her lashes. "Now, surely you can stay a while longer, Mr Kent. I'll tell you straight, you ain't lived in Gotham until you've heard the Black Canary sing." And she looked at me so winningly that I found myself sitting down, and a drink in my hand, even before she'd reached the stage.

"The Black Canary?" I whispered to Malone, as a hush drew down over the patrons and she stepped up to the front of the stage. He grinned a little.

"Yeah. Canary because there ain't no sweeter songbird in the county. And Black because that's what she'll beat ya if you try anything funny with her." He smiled sadly up at her, as the opening bars of "Why don't you do right?" began to swirl smokily around the room. "Tough dame, our Birdie. Since her Jack was killed, none tougher."

"Her husband?" I asked, and his face fell a bit.

"Nah. Never made to the altar, those two, though she was gonna have his child. Happiest months of their lives, so I heard. When he died, she took his name for herself and their kid. To remember him by, you know? To let the kid know she had a Dad once. Damn near broke Ted's heart when he heard what happened to her, if Alan is to be believed. And he usually is."

I looked at him, at the pity and admiration in his face, and beyond him to the rapt and tender expressions of his companions, and the patriarchal caring in John's eyes. And as I settled back to spend the evening under the spell of the Black Canary, I figured that black though she may be, there are people in Gotham that shine bright enough to take the edge off the darkness.

***

When I was dragged from my sleep the next morning by the angry ringing of the telephone, sleep clutching determinedly at me after I had staggered home to its embrace no earlier than one o' clock the night before, I began to doubt it once more.

"Kent! Where the hell are you?" Lois nearly screamed in my ear. I dropped the telephone, and had to scramble down beside the bed to find it again.

"What?" I breathed back, scrubbing at my face with one hand. "Lois? What's wrong?"

"Get your farmboy ass down here, Kent!" she demanded, something deeply wrong with her tone. "There's been another murder!"

"What!?" I scrambled to my feet, searching desperately for my pants. "Who is it?" There was a long pause, and my gut clenched with an icy dread. "Lois?"

Her voice was oddly subdued as she answered, like she was afraid to break me. "That woman you were flirting with at the gala, Kent. You remember her?"

I froze, dropping my belt with a clatter. "Selina? Selina Kyle?"

"Clark ... She's dead. They killed her, Clark. I'm so sorry."

I didn't even hear the end of her apology. I'd dropped the phone again, and that time, I couldn't bring myself to pick it back up.


	4. Suspicion Of Murder

I did pick the telephone back up. Eventually. I sat on my bed with my hand making furrows through my hair as I listened to Lois give me an address. The street name meant nothing to me, but I fished out a pencil and made a note of it, planning to hail a taxi once I could get my feet back under me. And I got one, too, not ten minutes after calling it. There was a certain black humour in that, that you could call up a taxi in Gotham to pay someone a call, and not get it for an hour, but head for a murder, and she drums one up on the spot for your convenience.

Hell, I was feeling cynical. Friends dying on me tends to do that, even if I'd only known them for a few moments. And Selina ... she'd been special. I'd never met a dame like her, and it killed me to know I'd failed her. But as the cabbie started taking me down streets that suddenly looked familiar, that pain wasn't the only thing I was feeling. A sickness rooted its way into my gut as I realised where we were heading.

Into Old Gotham.

Goddamn it. That taxi pulled up outside a shady block of apartments on the southeast side of the old town. Probably only about three blocks from where I'd gone in after Wayne, though I couldn't be any more sure now than I'd been the night before. All that time I was wandering around, or sitting under the Canary's spell, and she was here. Dying.

I paid the cabbie as quickly as I could, trying to ignore the way he stared at me. Not at the crowd of cops on the doorstep. That was the way of life around here, worth a couple of seconds of attention, no more. But I, some blow-in walking in like he'd been summoned ... that was different. Newcomers sure made an impression in Gotham. Or maybe it was just me.

I walked in the door, conscious that hard eyes followed me every step of the way. Cops are like that when a stranger walks on scene, but they don't question you. Nobody walks into a murder scene unless they got business being there. Either business with the high-ups. Or business with the victim. Either way, they let you up, let you get an eyeful, see what shakes loose before the man in charge takes you aside for a nice round of interrogation. I've had cops in Metropolis give me the run-through before, like on the Chrysler case couple of years back. It lasted around about until Lois walked on-scene. They didn't like to argue with her, and I can't say I blamed them.

In Gotham, though, there was no respect owing for me or Lois. So there was no warning touch on my arm as I walked down the third floor corridor. No veiled looks of pity in the eyes of the cops. They were hard men, faces blank and cool and completely professional as the stranger walked by. I don't doubt the rumour mill started up again the instant I was out of earshot, but not in front of the blow-in. Not in front of a potential mole.

Then I stood in the doorway of her apartment, of her room, and all that stopped mattering to me. I registered Lois out of the corner of my eye, and Gordon with her, but it wasn't important. What was important, the single thing that mattered in that room, was the body lying behind the coffee table. Her body.

I stepped into the room, walked over around the table so I could see her. Properly. Like a man should stand and see how he'd failed. Somebody moved behind me, but I had eyes only for her.

Selina lay on her back, her red dress bleeding down into the red-black pool beneath her, an arm outstretched like she like was accusing somebody, the other curled in reflexive shock around her wounded torso. The siren polish of the nails on that reaching hand was chipped and broken, like she'd fought for the weapon that killed her, and the look frozen on her face was as angry as it was terrified. I tried to imagine the flirtatious smile she'd given me that night at the gala, tried to fit it over that defiant snarl, and found I couldn't. She'd frozen in death, no longer the damaged temptress but a fallen warrior, and her green eyes stared up at me in blind challenge over the bloody glitter of the stone her killer had left lying innocently in the open wound, as if to taunt me.

A hand touched my shoulder, gently enough, but still I jumped. Gordon's face registered no acknowledgement of the motion, giving me time to gather myself, and I had to feel grateful to him.

"Stand aside, lad," he said gruffly, into my blank look of confusion. "Let the lads have her now." I blinked, looked at the two men standing behind him with the body-bag, and for a second felt an irrational urge to stand there and not let them past, not let them take her where she didn't -couldn't- belong. For a second, I felt my face harden in defiance, and then the spirit left me, and I slumped a bit as I stood aside, and left her to them. And I thought I saw a hint, just a glimmer, of pity in Gordon's eyes as he led me off to one side.

Instantly, Lois was at my side. Her small hand found mine, the strength of her grip reassuring, and she stood beside me as we watched them take Selina away. She didn't know Selina, any more than I did, really, but there was that look of strange sympathy in her face, that silent commiseration from one tough woman to her fallen comrade. Whoever Selina was, whatever she had been in life, she didn't deserve what had happened to her, and Lois understood that instinctively. And so did I.

Gordon and his boys, on the other hand, I wasn't so sure of.

After a minute or two, Gordon gestured to one of his lads to take Lois aside, and fixed me with a calm, measuring stare. I looked back as openly as I could. His hands were busy lighting a cigar as he watched me thoughtfully, just looking me over, as if he were trying to fit me into a slot in his mind. I could guess what slot he thought might do it.

"Either you've got balls of brass," he said finally, musingly, "or you ain't acting, kid. Don't think I've ever seen a man so stricken as you, standing over a body. Not for a long time, anyway."

"I'm not acting," I said, more than a little coldly. "You don't think I could do something like ... something like _that_ , do you?"

He nodded his head consideringly, not looking at me. "Well, now. I don't know you enough to make any kind of judgement on that, do I? But when your lady friend there follows me up here, and tells me that you know the victim, and then panics because she ain't seen or heard from you all the previous night ... Well, you tell me what I'm meant to think then, eh?"

I shook my head, stunned. "You can't tell me _Lois_ thinks I could do that. I won't believe it!"

"No," He said softly, and then he did look at me, hard and piercingly. "No, she doesn't believe it. She was afraid you were lying in some other room, looking just like your friend Miss Kyle. That little lady believes in you. And that ... is why I want to be very, very sure that her faith is justified. I wouldn't like to think you were lying to her. And I'd like it even less if you were looking at her, and seeing a future Miss Kyle."

I stared at him, aghast, my fist clenching at my side. I couldn't even get my head around what he was suggesting, couldn't answer over the swell of angry disbelief in my chest. To accuse me of murder, however obliquely, was one thing. To suggest that I would ever, _ever_ harm Lois was quite another. There was no way. There was just no possible way. I shook my head in angry denial, but the words to explain just wouldn't come. The concept was simply too far beyond my comprehension.

And then he nodded to himself and, easy as you please, he started smiling, like I wasn't standing there getting ready to haul off on him. A neat little twitch of the lips, and a wry shake of his head, and he looked up back up at me. "Didn't think so," he said. "Minute you walked in the room, my gut said it wasn't you. Nobody looks at something they done the way you looked at her. But I had to be sure, for your friend's sake. My gut's been wrong before, though not on something this big, and I had to know for sure. Couldn't let that pushy little number walk off with a killer, could I?"

And he so obviously meant it that I had to forgive him. For Lois' sake, I'd have done the same. Hell, to protect Lois I probably wouldn't even have waited to find out. I'd have slapped me in a cell and have done with it, and good riddance. In fact, had he been any other police officer in Gotham, that's exactly what I would've expected of him. But Lois has gut feelings about people too, and she's as seldom wrong. If she said Gordon was on the level, then he probably was. And the wary glint that remained in his eyes, even as he nodded at me, only confirmed it. He was no fool, and he wasn't about to let a killer slip by him, no matter how innocent looking.

"So," he started, interupting my thoughts. "Mind telling me where you _were_ , last night? Just to keep the boys down at the office happy?" The sidelong look he sent me was in equal parts cautious and commiserating. I opened my mouth to answer him, and stopped dead.

Because I'd remembered what the sight of Selina had driven from my mind. I remembered why I was in Old Gotham that night. Who I was following. I was remembering that I'd lost that man, the same man who'd fought with Selina the night of the gala, in the old town not twenty minutes from here, if I could judge such things right at all in this damned city. A man who'd been damned familiar with the streets, who moved among the thugs without fear, who had eyes that were as hard and lonely as any I'd ever seen.

I knew I hadn't killed Selina. But could I say the same for Bruce Wayne?

"Kid?" I turned back to Gordon, to find him looking at me with that hard, penetrating stare, ripe suspicion back in his eyes. "You got something you wanna tell me?" And it was in the front of my thoughts to do just that, to tell this one trustworthy cop everything I thought I knew, and let the law handle it. His name was on the tip of my tongue, and all I had to do was open my mouth and say it.

To this day, I don't know why I didn't. Maybe it was that standing over Selina's body had made it personal for me, made me want to find her killer myself. Maybe I wanted to look into his eyes, and hear the truth for myself. Maybe it was that some part of me couldn't understand why Bruce Wayne, of all people, would want to kill. Not just Selina, but Weiss too. I hadn't forgotten him. Or maybe that was just what I wanted to think, because I didn't want to believe that those lonely eyes could belong to a murderer. I don't know. What I do know, is that when I opened my mouth to answer Gordon, not a mention of the man with the lonely eyes passed my lips.

"I was here," I answered, still too caught up in my own thoughts to realise how that would sound. It was only when Gordon slowly and carefully took his cigar out of his mouth and moved his other hand nearer his holstered weapon that I realised what I'd just said. "Not _here_ here!" I burst out. "I meant I was here in the old town. I ... got lost."

He paused in the wary motion, but his hackles were back up, right enough, and his hand didn't stray far from the revolver. "Lost, eh? Got anyone to say where, exactly, you happened to get lost?"

I shrugged in relief. That was no problem. "Sure. Half of Old Gotham probably noticed me, especially when two boys tried to run me into an alley. But if you could try the bar, if you wanted someone more trustworthy."

"Bar?" There was a flat note to his voice still, a blank wariness. Whatever trust I'd gained from him had fled altogether.

"Ah, I didn't catch it's name. Don't know if it has one. Matches called it John's place."

I'm not sure which name it was that did it, but Gordon stiffened in outright surprise, and stared at me in startled reassessment. "John's. You're sure?" he asked sharply. I nodded. "And _Matches_ brought you in?"

I blinked. "You know them? Do you know everyone in Gotham, Commissioner, or what?" He shook his head.

"Not by a long shot, kid. No. Either you're the luckiest damn reporter in Gotham, or the unluckiest schmuck going. Or ..." and he stared hard at me, "... there's something you ain't telling me. You been here what, two days, and you've managed to be on the scene at two murders, and in between get hooked up with _that_ lot. If that's coincidence, I'll eat my badge. Hnh. I suppose John'll vouch for your whereabouts last night?"

I nodded, bewildered. Which lot was 'that' lot? "John, or Miss Lance. I stayed to watch her set." He nodded, and his eyes managed to soften again at the mention of Canary's name. But at least he might have a reason to know her. If I remembered right, her husband ... damnit, he was, for the love in her eyes at his memory ... had been a cop, and a murdered one. Gordon'd know her, all right. And John, well, there was no telling. It was Matches that threw me. A cop knowing a criminal was hardly surprising, but _respecting_ one? Not for the first time, I wondered what the hell I'd gotten dragged into.

"Alright," Gordon said softly. "Alright. John says you were there, you were. What time'd you leave?"

Here, I winced a bit. "Ah. I'm ... I'm not exactly sure. Some time around one, I think. I wasn't ... exactly sober. You might be better to ask John. Or Matches. He got me home, I think." And Gordon shot me what they called an _old_ look, a wry twitch to his mouth, and I knew he'd relaxed his suspicions a bit once more. "Why? What time ..." I swallowed. "What time'd she go down?" There was no doubt who I meant.

Gordon shrugged. "No harm telling you, I suppose. John won't lie, no matter how you might try to convince him to. We got a witness saying she was seen alive around half past eleven, heading up here, and then the landlady -she's the woman in white you'll have seen on the way in- said she heard a gunshot go off around twenty to one. Said she didn't know where it was coming from, and wasn't exactly inclined to investigate." He snorted blackly. "Lucky she decided to tell us that much, around this neighbourhood. People around here see no evil, and hear no evil, and you can damn well be sure they don't speak no evil."

He stopped, and shook the black mood off, staring suddenly around the room as if remembering where he was for the first time, and blinking a bit when he realised that aside from one uniform left outside the door, we were alone. Shaking his head at himself, he nodded me towards the door. "Come on, kid. Lets finish this conversation elsewhere, eh?" Away from the site of a friend's murder. I had no problem whatsoever with that. He paused as we went out to speak with the officer at the door.

"Montoya, think Traffic will let you off long enough to run an errand for me?" The sharp-faced woman in the traffic uniform smiled.

"Thought you'd never ask," she responded sweetly, and Gordon grinned.

"Run down to John's, will you? Check if the kid was there last night." She frowned, and looked measuringly at me.

"Dunno, sir. Why don't you send Bullock?"

Gordon blinked. "Because John'd knock him back out on his ear the minute he opened his mouth, that's why! You know what Bullock thinks about the 'freaks'. He goes down there, we'll have a riot on our hands, and he'll be in the middle of it!"

Montoya grinned darkly. "Yeah. Your point, sir?"

Gordon stopped. "He been giving you trouble again, Montoya?" She shrugged bitterly.

"The usual. Woman's got no place being a cop. Not even a ticket-pusher in Traffic. I should be a good little girl and let the big men handle it. Man makes me sick." And she spat off to one side in a very unladylike fashion, and grinned sharply at my expression. "You agree with him, mister? Think I shouldn't be doing a man's job?"

I shook my head hurriedly, and allowed Gordon to steer me away without resistance. "No, he doesn't. Ain't that right, lad?" I nodded rapidly. "Just run down, Montoya. I'll have a word with Bullock later, alright?" I missed her response, but I gather it wasn't flattering to the man in question. Gordon shook his head as we walked out down the stairs, and then turned to me with that considering look back in his eyes. "So. How long did you know Miss Kyle?"

I blinked, caught out again. I could have sworn he'd forgotten that, once he'd decided I hadn't killed her. But I was fast realising that this man didn't forget or miss much of anything. "Ah, all told? About half an hour," I answered, and shrugged sheepishly at his wondering look.

"Damn," he murmured, and I looked at him sharply. "You really did get hit bad. She must've liked you."

"What do you mean?" I asked harshly as we stepped out into the downstairs hallway, heading back out among the cops.

"Just that you were awful tore up over someone you'd known for half an hour. I know Miss Kyle was good, but I didn't think she was _that_ good."

Before I knew it, I had my hand fisted in his shirt collar, the fury coursing through me making me forget myself enough to have the strength of that fist showing clear. "What the hell are you saying?" I growled. "Damnit, man, they just took her body out!" I heard the distinctive sounds of multiple guns being cocked, but I didn't care. My eyes were fixed on his face. And he, quite calmly, laid his hand on my arm and coldly commanded his men to stand down.

"You forget yourself, sir," he said softly, and there was no fear in him, and no cruelty either. "I haven't forgotten what has happened. Nor am I likely to." I put him down. He straightened his tie as if nothing had happened, and motioned me to follow him on. Breathing a little heavily, I did, conscious of the hard, angry stares that bored into my back.

"We're not exactly unfamiliar with Miss Kyle," he continued mildly. "I'd go so far as to say I know more of her than you do, Mr Kent. Did you know she used to be a bit of a skirt? Suspected of jewel robbery, among other things?" I jerked a bit, and he smiled knowingly. "She was never caught, but she was never shy about her past, even after Wayne fell for her and bought her way out of the slums for her. Most thought he was just another mark to her, but turns out it may have been the other way around. Met her match in him, I think."

"Didn't know you kept up with the gossip, _Commissioner_ ," I grumbled, but I was listening intently. He may have known more about her past, but I wagered I knew a bit more about her present that he did. Anything to do with Wayne had me pricking my ears. He smiled bitterly, but kept going.

"Have to, when they call me in for every bloody function and piss-up in Gotham, don't I? But Miss Kyle never begrudged anyone the truth. Wayne knew what she was when he fell for her. Everyone does. And they still fall despite it. She had magic, I guess. It just failed her with Wayne. He gave her the diamond, though."

I stopped dead. "What?" I whispered. Gordon turned.

"Didn't know, did you?" His mouth twisted wryly. "Don't know a hell of a lot about this murder, do you?" I shrugged that off. I may have been lost, but I was beginning to see the light. "But yeah. That diamond the killer placed so bloody cheerfully, it was hers. Wayne gave it to her, for a goodbye present. Fact is, we managed to get him to agree to come down to ID it, make sure. I should be heading to the office now, in fact." He looked at his watch. "Should be coming in in another half hour or so."

I stared at him. Wayne was connected to Selina by a _diamond_? The same diamond used in the murder? And no-one thought this was in any way suspicious? Gotham rich don't get questioned, though, do they? The Gotham PD don't bite the hand that bloody feeds them, do they? But looking at Gordon's calm, tired face stopped that train of thought where it stood. No. Whatever about the rest of them, this cop would question whoever he damn well thought needed questioning. He simply didn't know what I knew. About where Wayne had been the night before. And who's fault was that, after all?

But I didn't tell him. Even then, I didn't tell him, though common sense and every decent urge in my mind told me I should. I couldn't make myself tell him. Because I wanted Wayne for myself. I wanted to talk to the rich bastard one to one, and shake the truth out of him if I had to. And to that end ...

"Mind if I come with you?" I asked. He looked at me sharply, and I shrugged. "Since I don't see Lois around, I'm guessing she followed the story back to base. I just wanted to reassure her that I'm not under arrest for murder." I paused. "That _is_ the case, right?"

Gordon smiled wearily. "Yeah. I'm not arresting you on _suspicion_ of anything. With that little she-cat on your side, I'm waiting until I'm damn well sure before I risk her wrath. But if you want to come to a cop-shop after today's little chat ... well, I ain't about to stop you." And he opened the passenger door of his car to let me in, before moving over to one of his officers for a final report on the scene, and to give the last orders for clean-up. They would have had most of it done long before I came on-scene, anyway. He'd waited, to see if I'd been there before, to see if her body would catch me off-guard and let the guilt show through. This was just the final check.

I didn't care. I knew I hadn't killed her, and I trusted Gordon to be smart enough to know it. My only problem now was going to be waiting for me at the station.

Bruce Wayne. The man with the lonely eyes. And quite possibly the man responsible for two murders, if only one that really mattered to me.

He and I were due a little chat.


	5. Confrontations

Gordon and I drove down to GCPD head office in silence, the cop worrying steadily at his cigar the whole way. Up close, the air of perpetual exhaustion that shrouded him was even more pronounced, and the frown lines that pulled his eyebrows down to blanket the top rims of his glasses made him look like one of those men you see staring dully into their whiskey at closing time on a Monday night, kicked so low they can't get up again. But you'd be a fool to underestimate him for it. His eyes beneath those worried brows were sharp and assessing, and his hands were firm and calm on the wheel. Walking a straight line in a crooked city had worn him down, but not worn him out. He'd be a man to trust, if you hit a truth that might not sit well with the politically-minded of Gotham. Something worth keeping in mind, for when I'd had my little chat with Wayne.

Police HQ was like police stations everywhere, crowded and noisy and slightly dirty, full of the stink of stale coffee and cigarettes and that faint undertone of violence that is difficult to pin down but still pervasive. Gordon moved through the throng in a determined amble, set firmly on his destination but unhurried, and cops moved around him the way tugboats moved around steamers in Metropolis harbour. I followed in his wake, watching them give me that quick copper's once-over and classifying me as potentially interesting, but somebody else's business. There were other newshawks scattered here or there among the cops and the crooks, picking up stories for the Gotham papers, but not the one I was looking for.

Didn't take me too long to find her, though. Up on the second floor, heading down towards Gordon's office, I caught the sound of her voice, with that tone of hers that's as sweet as rotting flowers and deadly as poison. A man's voice came out of the same office, brash and wheedling and deeply condescending. Ahead of me, Gordon winced. "Bullock," he muttered, and deliberately steered away from the doorway so the occupants wouldn't see him as he passed. I hurried after him, pausing to peek in at the bulky detective leaning heavily on his desk and leering at a seated Lois, who was giving him a pleasant smile that was mostly teeth. I winced, and hoped he wasn't too attached to the idea of having kids in the future.

Gordon was waiting for me in the hallway beyond their door. He raised an eyebrow at me. "Not going in? Thought you were looking for the lady." I could swear he was smiling behind that mustache.

I shook my head adamantly. "Do I look that much of a sap? She's gearing up for murder in there!" I winced even as I said it. Under the circumstances, it wasn't exactly in good taste. But Gordon grinned sharply.

"Figured as much. I was waiting for Bullock to try it. Eventually, he goes for every skirt that comes by looking like they work for a living."

"And you didn't think to warn her?" I asked. He looked at me.

"Didn't want to spoil her fun," he answered wryly, then sobered. "Besides, I can't keep putting him down for it. He won't learn. Sooner or later some woman's going to have to teach him manners, and make the lesson stick. Montoya'd do it quick as a flash, but he can pull rank on her. I figured that little number in there could knock him down a couple of sizes and not break a sweat, and it'd keep her out of our hair for a while. Two birds, one stone." He shrugged, and turned to walk away again, tossing a look back over his shoulder. "Grab a chair out of some office, and watch the show. And don't wander off!"

I wasn't sure how happy I was about being treated like some stray dog that'd wandered in, but he had a point. Anything that could be got here, Lois would've taken care of already, so I'd nothing to do until Wayne arrived. And watching Lois put serious dents in some poor schmuck's ego was always entertaining. Provided you weren't the schmuck in question, of course. So I borrowed one of the hard wooden chairs from the dingy office across the hall from Bullock's, and settled in.

It took Wayne an easy twenty minutes to show, as befit his station as a man who could afford to make authority wait, and in that time Lois had reduced the beefy cop to incoherant splutters of outrage, and had begun the process of explaining certain facts to him in a cool, pleasant voice that had made more than her share of brave men want to scurry backwards from her presence. It was going to take a while longer, though, for this one to learn. He had that kind of self-righteous assurance that you'd have a hard time denting with a mortar shell, and even for Lois it was heavy going.

Their voices faded into so much background noise, though, as soon as Wayne turned the corner from the stairs. That night at the gala, he'd made an instant impression, cutting through the glittering throng like a hawk through so many parrots. Here, in grimer and dirtier surroundings, he made an even bigger one.

Dressed in sober black, accented by the quiet gleam of a red silk waistcoat and the crisp white of his shirt collar, he was a figure of power and wealth, the symbol of a completely different world. Against the brown and grey grime of the corridor, the stark richness of him stood out in a note of jarring dissonance, and the cool arrogance of his features showed how much he knew it. His face was folded into lines of composed grieving, showing pain clearly in a way that no man here could risk, but I could see something beneath that. Beneath the grief he flaunted so cavalierly, there was a hard gleam to his eyes.

He strode down the hall as if hurrying to get this task over with, but he checked his step for an instant as he passed where I sat, eyes cutting curiously towards me, and I nodded knowingly at him. And for the barest second, something flickered in his gaze, some hidden thing pressing against the underside of his vapid composure, and I knew I had been right. Wayne knew something. And he knew I knew it.

As he stepped into Gordon's office, I sat back with a certain degree of grim satisfaction, and when they came out again, Gordon leading him down to the evidence lock-up to view the jewel, I set my chair back where it belonged, and strolled outside.

A great gleaming beast of a limousine, a Pierce Arrow this time, sat in calm arrogance in front of the steps, where it garnered more than a few admiring whistles and contemptuous cackles from cop and criminal alike, but no-one had tried to go near it. I assumed that this was due to the polite and rather intimidating stare of the driver. Not wanting to run afoul of it myself, with the memory of the last time clear in my mind, I opted to settle against one of the pillars of the grand old facade of the building. And waited.

Wayne emerged half an hour later, with something tired about the set of his shoulders and grief in his face that might have been real, and paused deliberately to look for me. I straightened from my pillar, stepping out into clear view. He turned his head as he caught the movement, steel firming in his stance again, and all emotions fleeing behind a calm, unconcerned mask. He walked up to me, cool as you please, and offered his hand. I took it. It never hurts to get the measure of a man's hand. His was firm and dry, and oddly familiar.

"I think we need to have a talk, Mr Wayne," I said softly, and he nodded, something like sadness flitting briefly over his features.

"Please," he murmured, his voice a rich and wounded baritone, and gestured towards the car. I shook my head.

"No offense, Mr Wayne, but I don't think so. A car like that, it looks big enough to swallow me. I might never be seen again." There was enough of a genial note in my tone to fool an eavesdropper, but not him. "I thought we might take a walk. After all, you seemed so at ease when you took your little stroll yesterday evening." He shot me a quick, assessing look, and for a second I could have sworn there was a glimmer of pride in it. Then it disappeared as if it had never been, and his face hardened, his stance shifting to something vaguely defensive.

"And why, Mr Kent, would I want to take a walk with you?" His voice was soft, but as hard as the diamond that gleamed in his tie-pin. I shrugged.

"Because this is hardly the place to cause a scene, Mr Wayne. Not after last night." I let my own voice cool a bit, the black stain behind a coffee table in the front of my mind. He met my gaze for a long, tense moment, blue eyes cold and vibrantly alone as they met mine, and then he nodded, sharply, and turned to wave the car away. The white-haired old driver frowned heavily and gestured his disapproval, but Wayne shook his head, and turned to fall into step beside me. I met the old man's eyes as we started to walk away, and shivered for the sudden gleam of chill fury I found there. I looked away hurriedly.

We walked for a couple of blocks in silence, me and Wayne, his pace a measured, dangerous beat beside mine, until he slid a sideways glance my way, and smiled softly. I blinked at him. "Something wrong?" His smile widened, showing a gleam of perfect teeth.

"Did you have a specific destination in mind, or are we just going to walk around until you figure it out?"

I flushed. But he had a point. I'd been in Gotham a grand total of two days, and never to this part of it. I hadn't the slightest clue where we were going. But I didn't have to know street names to know what kind of place I needed. Somewhere private. Murder was not exactly a topic for a public conversation. Somewhere where people would mind their own business, and turn a blind eye to a rich boy slumming with a newshawk, so it wouldn't get back to Gordon _straight_ away. I didn't want him to know just yet, and the man struck me as fairly sharp.

I knew what I needed. But getting to it was something else. Wayne, watching me, took my hesitation to mean he'd been right, and shook his head with an air of condescending amusement that had me gritting my teeth. "I must say," he murmured softly, "this is by far the most badly organised kidnapping attempt I've ever suffered." That startled me a bit.

"I'm not kidnapping you!" I said, too loudly, and ducked my head against the stares that swung our way. Not that we weren't attracting them anyway, the millionaire and me arguing on the sidewalk, but that certainly clinched it. Wayne gave them an airy wave over my shoulder, and smiled tolerantly at me until our audience began to move on again. Then his face hardened.

"No?" he asked quietly. "But you _are_ attempting to blackmail me into ... what, exactly?"

"I just want to talk," I answered stiffly. "Somewhere quiet and out of the way. About last night. About Selina. About you, and how you happen to know her." About whether or not you murdered her. But I wasn't about to say that out loud.

He stared at me for a long moment, a strange half-smile lurking in one corner of his mouth, and then he turned sharply on his heel and strode out onto the edge of the road, one arm raised in an imperious hail. I leapt after him, seizing his arm and pulling him back around to face me. The muscles of that arm bunched smoothly beneath my hand, a warning shift, but he didn't pull away.

"What the hell are you doing?" I growled. Wayne smiled.

"Fearless, aren't you?" he murmured. "I'm hailing a cab, what does it look like? You don't honestly think I would discuss this here, do you? And since you refused my offer of a ride ..."

I released his arm. "Well, taking you up on it would hardly have been the smartest of moves for someone in my position, would it?" I probably sounded more annoyed than I would have liked, but the man was infuriating in so many ways. It would have been hard to remember why I wanted to talk to him at all, in fact, but a friend's body ain't something you forget in a hurry.

It wasn't long until a taxi appeared as if by magic by the kerb. Of course it did. For him. The cabbie stared at us as we got in the back, with me holding door for Wayne. Not because I felt any feudal obligation, of course, but so he wouldn't do a runner on me. Not that he acted as if the thought had ever even crossed his mind.

"Where to, sirs?"

I didn't recognise the name of the street Wayne gave him, but from his stunned reaction, I gathered it wasn't somewhere he would expect a man of the millionaire's standing to frequent. Wayne gave him a sunny smile. "We've decided to slum it for a few hours," he declared, with a vapid exuberance that grated. "This here's my bodyguard!" I tried to act like this wasn't news to me. I don't know that I succeeded, from the doubtful look the man gave me.

"He don't look like much, if you're heading down that neck of the woods, if you don't mind my saying, sir."

Wayne only grinned. "He's got hidden talents. Now if you don't mind ...?" And he flashed a twenty from some concealed pocket of his excellent suit, and our new friend accepted it with a shrug as if to say it was our funeral and none of his business. He'd done his best.

We pulled up after a silent ride in a part of town I didn't recognise, but it looked like an area of Old Gotham that for some reason I'd been lucky enough to miss the first time around, the drunken lean of rundown buildings casting a permanent shadow over life beneath them. I wondered exactly how much of an obsession Wayne had with this end of town, in between keeping an eye out for friends he might have in the area, and the inevitable slew of petty criminals his clothes and jewellry was bound to attract.

"Is anyone actually that vapid?" I muttered to him as the cab pulled away with eager haste. It wasn't exactly on topic, but after that little performance I simply had to know. He looked at me, and raised one hand to his temple as if something pained him.

"Sit through four Gotham society dinners a month, for six years, and then talk to me about vapid," he muttered back, and there was venom in it. "I've crafted every single nuance of my public persona strictly from the real examples flaunted at me during one event after another. You have no idea what vapid _means_." And he walked away towards a seedy looking building without a further word, leaving me to stare, then follow warily in his wake.

I realised what the place was as soon as I walked through the door, from the dingy lobby and battered registration desk. Not quite a motel, because that word implies a degree of class this place simply didn't have, but the theory was similar. One of those places where you could rent a closet masquerading as a room, for an hour or a night. Not longer. The kind of people who came here wouldn't be interested in staying in any one place for too long. And certainly not here. From the looks of the mouldering carpet clinging precariously to the bottom of the stairs, off to the right, cleaning wasn't a word the establishment put a lot of stock in.

Wayne, standing at ease beside the desk with a grubby key in his hand, looked about as right here as a fish would who'd accidentally landed in the desert. But the hard-faced woman behind the counter didn't give him a second glance, as if millionaires dropped by every other day.

He tipped a shoulder towards the stairs, and I sent him a wary look in response, not moving. I was beginning to feel like _he_ was kidnapping _me_ , and I didn't like it. It was hardly likely that he could have an ambush set up for me, not twenty minutes after we met for crying out loud, but I wasn't going a step further without knowing what the hell was going on. I planted my feet and glared at him.

He glared back, a silent battle of wills, but a glance to the side showed that the beginnings of a vague interest in her surroundings was starting to appear in the woman's dull eyes. Wayne sighed in exasperation, and strode over to stand at my shoulder.

"You wanted quiet, out of the way?" he said softly at my ear, staring out beyond me into the street behind the filthy glass of the door. "Does this not suit your tastes?" And there was a definite hint of mockery underneath that.

I snarled silently at him. "I said out of the way. Not isolated enough that nobody'd hear a scream, even if they'd the inclination to pay attention. And why the hell aren't you attracting more attention?"

He smirked. "And who, exactly, do you think is going to be screaming? I assure you, Mr Kent, that I am not so fainthearted as that." I stiffened, and shot a furious glance sideways at his composed profile, before what he'd said hit me. I cast a frantic thought back over our encounter so far, but I knew I'd been right the first time.

I'd never given Wayne my name. Not once.

And while there was any amount of ways he could have learned it since the gala two nights ago, until now I hadn't thought he'd any reason to look. There was no reason up to now that he would have to be interested in me. Unless there was far more going on here than I realised. And it was far more personal that I had dared to expect.

Quite suddenly, I was afraid.

He stood back, and smiled tiredly, holding out one hand to lead me up the stairs. Numbly, I took it, and for a second an incredible sadness flickered behind his chill blue gaze. He pulled me closer to him, turning to lay his other hand in the small of my back and pulling the hand he held across my stomach as he did so. And as he started to guide me up the stairs in that odd manner, he leaned in to whisper in my ear.

"And I am not attracting attention, Clark, because she thinks I'm nothing more than another of the social elite, come down to the slums to indulge my degenerate tastes." His voice was quiet and bitter, and he walked slightly behind me as if to shield me from view from below. "She thinks I'm here to enjoy your company. In a very ... intimate fashion."

That woke me up. Rather quickly, in fact, but his hand locked around mine before I could jerk away, the steady push in the small of my back as inexorable as the Gotham night. "Not here," he hissed in my ear. "Or we really will attract attention. And not the kind you would appreciate, believe me." I could feel the raw heat in my eyes as my glare threatened to bore into his skull, but he ignored it as casually as a man might ignore a fly buzzing beside him. The only thing keeping me from showing him how much stronger than him I could be was the bitter humour that he so obviously directed towards himself.

I remained mutinously silent until we reached the door that matched the number just visible under the greasy mass of grubby fingerprints on the key. Wayne unlocked the door, bowing me through with that bitter smile, and relocked the door with a dull click behind us.

He turned to face me, blue eyes wary and sad in features set determinedly, and I crossed my arms over my chest to glare at him in the dimness. There was no light in the room, the bulb long since blown out and never replaced, and the only illumination was the halflight of the distant sun through windows caked with grime, and the harsher, slightly brighter flashing of the red sign of the brothel across the street. Cast in that ugly glow, he looked like a Prince of Hell in his rich attire, come to walk among his subjects.

For a long time, he simply watched me, measuring me against some unknown blueprint in his mind, and I bristled under that stare, grinding my teeth against the blatant intimidation of it. Then he smiled sadly again, and walked slowly over to place the key to the room carefully on the nightstand, before retreating back towards the door. I unfolded my arms at the motion, balancing warily on the balls of my feet. Wayne set his feet and spread his arms wide.

"I carry no weapons," he said softly. "But you may check if you like."

I started forward harshly, with more in my mind than a simple search for weapons, but two feet from him I checked the motion and froze. After the implication on the stairs, I suddenly couldn't bear to touch him. Seeing that, he lowered his arms slowly.

"Is your disgust so strong that you're willing to take that risk?" he asked, gently, and I shook my head.

"I don't care about any risk! Let's just ... Let's just get this over with. Get it the hell over with." And there was resignation in my voice, tired disgust, but no anger. Not really. I stepped back again, feeling suddenly old, and in a burst of sudden humour raised my arms at my sides in imitation of him. "But you can check me, if you need to."

He stared at me, a flare of genuine, startled humour in his gaze, and the stark loneliness of his aristocratic features touched something old and forgotten in me. I let go of my disgust. He shook his head in wry appreciation, and smiled up at me.

"Fearless," he murmured softly, and stepped forward to touch me lightly on the shoulder, motioning for me to lower my arms again. "How could I refuse to match that?" His fingertip was warm against my collar, and I shivered slightly. Then he stepped away again, walking beyond me into the center of the room where I'd stood moments before. He stared blankly at the far wall, arms folded, back stiff and turned towards me. He stood still for a minute, while I watched him, then tipped his head back and closed his eyes in sudden exhaustion.

I took a step towards him, suddenly forgetting my wary dislike in concern, and he dropped his head back forward and span to face me. I stopped. His face was once again set in its determined mask, and his eyes were flat and cool as he raised a hand to forestall me.

"I believe," he said quietly, with a certain weariness to it, "that you wanted to ask me about Selina. I suspect you intended to ask me ... Well. I believe you meant to ask me if I had murdered her. Mr Kent?" He smiled at me bitterly.

And I had nothing to say. Because it was true. That was exactly what I had meant to ask him. And even if I wasn't so sure I wanted to any more, for Selina's sake, I still had to ask it.

I squared my shoulders, and looked him in the eye. It was only right to face him properly.

"Mr Wayne. Did you kill Selina Kyle?"


	6. Fatal Attraction

Wayne was silent for a long moment, simply looking at me with a vaguely puzzled expression, as if surprised I'd actually gone ahead and asked, and wondering what had motivated me to it. Then he dipped his head to stare at the floor, gathering himself, I hoped, for an answer. But when he looked back up, it was only to disappoint me.

"Why me?" he asked softly. I shook my head, confused and growing angry again. "Why did you think to follow me, Mr Kent?"

"Surely you don't need to know that to answer the question," I responded testily. He smiled darkly.

"Indulge me."

I stared at him, at the simple arrogance of that statement that said he was a man to whom it never occured that someone might actually say no to him. He gazed back steadily, calm and patient, and I wanted to hit him. What momentary sympathy I might have had for him fled.

"If you're a murderer," I answered, low and angry, "then you don't deserve any 'indulgance'. And if you aren't, just say so and be done! I won't answer until you do."

He blinked. "All I want is to know why I am being accused, Mr Kent. Is that so unreasonable?"

"So you know what lies you have to make up to refute it?" I snarled. He shook his head sadly at me, and sighed.

"I need refute nothing, Mr Kent. I didn't murder anyone, let alone ... let alone Selina." His face darkened for a moment, something that might have been pain passing over it. Then it was gone again, and calm disinterest replaced it once more. "Or Weiss, though believe me there would be no particularly strong motivation to stop me killing _him_ , aside from a general aversion to the concept of murder. The man was hardly a shining example of humanity. But that is besides the point. I want to know what reason I could have given you for thinking me capable of killing."

He leveled a serious gaze at me, arms folded as if preparing to tolerate unknown idiocies, and I bristled despite his assurances of innocence. Or maybe because of them. A man shouldn't shrug off accusations of murder like they happened to him every day. Unless they did, in which case I wasn't going to like him anyway.

"The night Weiss was murdered," I began softly, meeting that blue gaze coolly. "You had an argument with Selina in the downstairs lobby. I saw you as I was leaving. She spat on you." Wayne didn't react. Not a twitch disturbed the steady calm of his features. "Then yesterday evening, I followed you into the old town. You were very familiar with the place. Familiar enough that you lost me in under twenty minutes, leaving you free to go where you pleased, and not half an hour distant from where she was killed. And not three hours ago, Gordon tells me that you gave Selina the diamond used in her murder!"

He watched me carefully, waiting for me to go on. When he realised that I wasn't going to, or not yet anyway, he raised an eyebrow in askance. "And this leads you to conclude ...?" he inquired, cool patience coating the words, as if nothing I said meant a damn to him. For a second, I saw red.

"I don't know," I said frostily. "What would you conclude, in my position, Mr Wayne?" He finally moved at that, tilting his head back to bark out a laugh, his eyes bright with humour. Too bright. Winter-bright, and vicious.

"Well now," he murmured, looking back at me in mocking consideration. "That's a question. Let's see. What would I think of me, if I were in your position? Well, how simple! I'd think I was a spoiled rich boy, who'd thrown aside a beautiful woman's affections, tossing her a diamond as a sop to her pride. And then ..." He eyed me derisively. "Oh, of course. And then I realised that said beautiful woman had found a new consort. Shall we say ... Weiss? An older man, rich, who'll leave her plenty to live off when he croaks, including a far more impressive jewel than I might have offered? A perfect mark, and fitting. Yes, that should do it. And then, in a fit of jealousy, I decide ... what? Mr Kent?"

Stung, I folded my arms and said nothing. He smiled at me bitterly, shoulders thrown back and spine stiff in the dank closeness of the room, and waved one hand in a short stabbing motion of frustration before continuing.

"I decide to blackmail Weiss into putting the Sehri-At up for auction. There's plenty in his past to warrant his caution. But why do I kill him? Because ... Ah, yes. Because Selina is a decent woman, and decides to be true to him despite his upcoming financial crisis, for reasons beyond my comprehension. So I kill him, and Selina and I fight because ... because she refuses to come back to me! And then, enraged, I wait for her in Old Gotham the next evening. And I kill her, and leave the diamond I gave her there to announce to the world why I did it. There we go." He smiled again, and it looked like the glitter of shattered glass. His eyes were hollow and desolate beneath the wild humour as he stared at me. "How am I doing so far, Mr Kent? Does that fit your view of things? Of me, and her? Of Gotham?"

I unfolded my arms, slowly and carefully, and balanced myself warily on the balls of my feet. There was a wildness to him, in that instant, a manic bitterness that flooded the tight confines of that little room and bled dangerously towards violence. My voice, when I answered, was soft and somewhat gentle in the face of it.

"No. It doesn't, Mr Wayne. Is that ... Is that what happened, though?"

As suddenly as it had come, the angry grief disappeared, and weariness rolled back in, making him suddenly smaller again. His shoulders slumped a little, and he raised a hand to scrub through his hair, once, in tired frustration. He looked away. "If only it were that simple," he answered quietly. "At least then justice might be easily found. All that would need to be done woud be to kill me, and Selina might rest easy. Not that high a price to pay, really."

I stepped towards him convulsively at that, and his head snapped up. I stopped, but shook my head in vehement refusal. The notion of so meaningless a death for him was repugnant to me. A man should answer for what he'd done, and for what he'd failed to do, yes, but only if the responsibility was actually his. And I wasn't sure anymore that the blame for Selina's death rested with him. It might, but until I knew for sure, I couldn't stomach so casual a condemnation.

He watched my face carefully, and something he found there brought a quiet smile to his features. A real one. "Don't like that idea, do you?" he asked softly. "Why not?"

I shrugged uneasily, and didn't answer, turning my attention back to the more important issue. "Doesn't matter. What matters is Selina, and what happened to her. If that isn't what happened, then what did, Wayne? You say you didn't kill her. Them. How do I know that?"

He tilted one shoulder bitterly. "How do you know anything for sure, Mr Kent? Lies are a way of life nowadays, from the meanest back alley to the most luxurious estate. I could tell you anything you wanted to hear, and you might never believe a word. And you may even be right not to."

"I want to know," I answered steadily, and it silenced him for a moment. He gave me a measuring look, careful and weighty. Then he nodded abruptly.

"Alright then," he said, and grinned in sudden humour. "You've maybe earned it, after all. There's not many with the nerve to question Bruce Wayne in Gotham. Ask away, Mr Kent."

I blinked, but there was nothing to lose that hadn't already been lost. "What were you fighting about, that night in the lobby?"

He smiled sadly. "Selina used to work for one of Weiss' ... enterprises, in the old town. With him dead, I needed to be sure that there wasn't still something tying her to him. Something that might make her a target."

"Was there?"

He looked up at me, a frown appearing. "I thought you were listening?" I shrugged sheepishly.

"I only caught the very end of it. But I thought she said it was over. At the time, I didn't know what 'it' was, and I may have assumed ..." He smirked, and I reddened. "Well, I may have been wrong. But if she meant her connections with Weiss were gone, even if she believed it ..."

He nodded. "She was wrong. Someone killed her, same as Weiss, and barely twenty four hours later."

I nodded slowly, weighing my next words carefully. "Yes. Hours in which you were missing, wandering around in the old town near where she was killed." He only looked at me steadily. "Hours you have yet to account for," I finished softly.

Wayne looked at me in silence for a long minute, as if weighing something in his mind, and not liking the answer he came up with. He turned away, walking the two steps to the filthy window so he could pretend to stare out into the dimness, the dull red flashing lining his profile in a dark light.

"You realise," he said softly, not looking at me, "that in this town I could say anything I pleased, and in two hours have as many witnesses as took my fancy to back it up?"

"The thought had occured," I answered, calmly. He lifted one shoulder in wry acknowledgment. "I suppose I'll simply have to check myself, once you decide to tell me."

"And if I decide not to? If I decide that it's none of your business?"

I stepped up a pace or so behind him, staring directly at the back of his head. He must have felt my presence, the potential threat of it, but he didn't move. Didn't even tense. Just went on staring blindly out into the perpetual half-light of the Old Gotham afternoon, giving nothing away. I decided to take a chance.

"I'd rather you didn't do that, Mr Wayne," I murmured. "I don't want to wonder if I've spent the past two hours in the company of a murderer." He half turned his head back towards me, listening in wary silence. "I don't want to believe you could kill like that, Mr Wayne."

"Why not?" It was asked so softly I doubt anyone else could have heard it, even that close.

"Because I thought there was something good about you, when I first saw you. I want to believe that first instinct."

He looked ahead again, considering, and when he answered I thought I heard a tired smile in his voice. "Well, there is one witness I could call, that you might believe," he said, to the air outside more than me. I tilted my head in readiness.

"Yeah?"

He turned to me fully then, reaching into his waistcoat pocket with one hand held up to stop me from jumping to the wrong conclusion. He had an odd smile on his face as he pulled out something small and rectangular. A book of matches. His eyes never left mine as he painstakingly pulled one clear, and placed it carefully between the teeth at one side of his mouth, so that it bobbed gently up and down as he spoke.

"How ya doin', kid?" he asked, a wary grin lighting his features. "Think ya'd believe your own eyes, if I called 'em up?"

I stared at him, stunned. There was no mistaking that seedy Gotham drawl, or the casual leer that looked so out of place with perfect, shining teeth. I nearly sat down in shock, then and there, with only the thought of what might be waiting for me on that floor to keep me on my feet. And Matches Malone sneered gently at me from out of Bruce Wayne's features, and held out a perfectly manicured hand to clasp my own shaking one in a re-introductary shake.

"Kid?" he prompted again, but I didn't answer. He frowned. Reaching up to remove the match, he stepped in towards me, Bruce Wayne once more, brows knitted in faint concern. "Mr Kent?" I shook myself, and took a little step back, needing to breathe. He watched me as a man watches an animal he ain't certain of, waiting for me to say something, do something. Anything at all.

Finally, I pulled myself together. I don't take kindly to shocks like that, and it had hit me suddenly, calling into doubt everything I'd thought knew about Gotham. And everything that had happened to me since following Wayne last night.

"I thought your hand felt familiar," I murmured, it being the first thing that sprang to mind. He gave me a tentative smile, and stepped back to give me a little room, almost brushing the encrusted glass of the little window and ruining his suit. I tilted my head to follow his motion, uncertain. "What ... who are you?"

He smiled sadly. "Bruce Wayne. Millionaire. Surely you remember that?"

I shook my head in angry confusion. "Then who's Matches?" And then something in me snapped a little, and I strode forward to catch hold of his neat and perfect collar. "Damn it, who did I spend all those hours with last night? Does he even exist?"

He raised a hand to lay it warningly on my arm, but there was no anger in his eyes. Instead, that aching loneliness that seemed to haunt him leapt viciously to the fore, and struck me silent.

"I hope so," he said quietly, staring sadly down at the rich gold of his cuff-link. "He seems so much more real than I am, sometimes. If he doesn't exist ..." He looked back up at me, and I suddenly felt like I was threatening him, in a way I didn't fully understand. "If he didn't exist," he continued softly, "I wonder how much of me would be left?"

I let him go, backing away from the quiet desolation in his eyes. He watched me retreat, with a knowing sadness that said there had been others who'd backed away from him, others who'd left rather than face who he was. I froze, but that knowledge didn't fade from his eyes.

He came forward then, maneuvering past me in the tight quarters to sit gingerly on the edge of the bed, seemingly uncaring of the layers of old filth that permeated it. He didn't look at me, head dipping wearily for a minute, before he straightened himself, resting one hand casually on his knee and raising his chin in an image of such proud and false confidence that it broke my heart. He looked back at me, the calm mask descending once more.

"So there you have it, Mr Kent. Clark." He gave me that bitter smile. "An alibi for Selina's murder. And a more perfect opportunity for blackmail than you'll ever come across. Think of the headlines. 'Millionaire Bruce Wayne masquerades as small-time hood in Gotham's underworld.' Or better again, 'Disguised millionaire elicits false confidences among the communities of Old Gotham.' Pick your choice of target. Either way, you could shatter both my lives with nothing but a word in the right ear."

I swallowed. "Then why ... Why tell me? Why say anything at all?"

He sighed. "Because I'm not a murderer. I may have lied to and betrayed almost everyone I've ever met, but I've never killed. _Never_. No matter what. You may think whatever you like about me now, Mr Kent. But not that. I could never have killed Selina. I want you to know that much, at least."

I nodded, silently. There wasn't much I could say. He looked down, tracing the line of his own knee in silent fascination, forehead wrinkling as his eyes slid from the crisp black of his suit to the ancient, off-colour bed linen. Then a thought seemed to occur to him, and he tilted his head back as something that might loosely be called a laugh escaped. I started.

"What's wrong?" He looked at me wryly.

"I just realised," he answered. "Whether or not you take it into your head to reveal me, I'll have to reveal myself anyway. If I was seen in the vicinity of the murder last night, Gordon won't let it lie. I'll have to explain to him what I was doing, and he won't take anything but the truth." He laughed again, and it cracked a little. "I'm sunk either way. Even if he decided not to question me today, he'll get around to it when he's good and ready."

I sighed in relief. That, I could deal with.

"Not unless he's psychic, he won't," I murmured, and he looked up at me sharply. "I never told him about you. I wanted to ask you myself first."

Wayne stared at me, with that same look of wary bafflement that Matches had worn when John touched his shoulder, or when Dinah called him her friend, as if amazed that someone might want to help him, and wondering what that help was going to cost. "Why?" he whispered. "You didn't know, then. I must have been nothing but a murderer to you. Why would you take that risk?"

I smiled, and did something then that should never, ever have occurred to me, but right then seemed utterly natural. I moved to stand over him, watching him as his eyes followed me warily, and in one quick motion leant over and pressed my lips to his forehead. I held there for a moment, resting one hand warmly on his shoulder, and stepped back. He stared up at me, stricken, and I smiled gently.

"You have lonely eyes," I said softly. He shook his head, and for a moment his features tried to harden into lines of wary affront, a brief flurry of desperate calculation, but some small and weary part of him wouldn't let them finish. He shook his head again, opening his mouth soundlessly to try and say something, but nothing came. I reached out cautiously to trace his jawline, a tiny and very petty part of me glad to have turned the tables back on him, but mostly I just wanted to erase the painful loneliness of him, even for just a second. Even for an hour. If he'd let me.

He pulled himself back, glancing at my face in almost fearful anger. "Blackmail," he managed, softly. "Didn't think you'd want this ..." The words died, but they were enough for me to step back a bit, to look down at him and promise.

"As much for you as for me," I pointed out. "This might ruin me as easily as you. More. Think of it as mutual insurance, if that helps." And I grinned slowly at him. "Besides, Mr Wayne. You were the one who brought us here, of all places. Or doesn't it suit your tastes, anymore?"

A flare of challenge rose in him then, something fierce and a little savage, and his blue eyes burned in the dim little room like tiny storm lanterns. Slowly, darkly, he reached up to unbutton his suit jacket, the black parting to reveal the dull gleam of red silk, and then that too slid open to bare the clean white of his shirt to the crowding filth of our little hole in the wall. He glared at me, angry and hollow and strangely powerful. I blinked in bewilderment, and couldn't help the flare of open admiration that I knew he couldn't possibly miss.

He smiled, then, and it wasn't tired or sad, though maybe a little bitter, but mostly it was the dark smile of a predator who'd found it's prey. He moved to lay back on the bed, the red silk of his waistcoat spilling out of the bounds of his jacket to lap like blood against the dirty linens, the richness of him stark against the soiled surroundings. The little diamond in his tie-pin moved with his every breath, winking like a bloody eye in the red flashing of the brothel across the street. Nestled in the crimson silk of his tie, resting against his chest, it reminded me suddenly of the diamond glittering between Selina's bloodied breasts, the mark of a victim. Furiously, I caught hold of the tie and tugged it viciously free, tossing the bloody little thing roughly away.

I looked up to meet his eyes then, and there was a world of sadness in them as he stared beyond me, head tilted back against the grey pillow as he looked out at the approach of some terrible thing I couldn't see. The top button of his shirt had opened when I ripped away the tie, and the pale line of his throat shone in the half-light like a sacrifice.

I knelt on the bed, leaning down to rest my hands carefully on the pillow to either side of his head and stared down at his face until he came back from whatever dark place he'd been, and refocused on me. I kissed him, gently, and he raised his head up to kiss me back, silent and fiercely burning. His hands came up to knot in my coat above my shoulders, trying to pull me down, but I resisted easily, taking my weight on my arms to pull back and look down at him. He glared back.

"I won't hurt you," I whispered, and meant it.

Those hollow eyes of his shuttered for a moment, going blank and blind as his hands slid helplessly down my shoulders until his elbows hit the mattress and he clutched convulsively at my arms. Something shattered inside him, and he blinked up at me like I'd broken off a piece of him for a keepsake.

"'You always hurt the ones you love'," he quoted hoarsely, and I started at the sound of it. He smiled again, or tried to, but it slid off his face like an accusation off a politician's back, and I wondered if maybe he was seeing Selina there, in the dimness. "You can't help it. No-one can. All you can do ..." He trailed off.

"All you can do ...?" I prompted him, as gently as I knew how, and he looked back up at me, and this time when he smiled, it stuck.

"All you can do," he continued, and reached up to brush his fingers over my cheek, "... is try to make the loving worth the hurt. Even if you can never succeed. You gotta try, or nothing means anything anymore."

I blinked at him, and smiled back through the ache in my chest. "Yeah," I agreed softly, and leant down to kiss him again, letting myself sink quietly into him as his hands curled around and started to slide my coat off my shoulders. I stayed silent as those hands became fierce again, and the hunter slipped back into his blue eyes, only moving my own in response over the silk and fine cloth that trapped him, in so many ways, and pulling him free as carefully and fiercely as I could.

It never occurred to me, as we sank into the decadent filth of that little bed and never cared, that when he talked about hurting the ones you love, he was talking about hurting me. Even after what Selina had said to me the first and only time we talked, even knowing that he lived a life of lies and did it well, I never thought that he might betray me. I guess it's like Gordon said, with the magic ones. Like Selina. Like Bruce. You know what they are before you fall for them.

And then you fall anyway.


	7. Shattering

It must have been something close to midnight when I woke, the darkness having piled itself in and around the room to leave only the damned blinking of the red light across the street. The room was colder, then, and painted in the dirty red shadows where the light fought with the grime on the panes.

It was cold, and dark, and I was alone. Wayne had gone.

For a minute or six, I just lay there with my arm thrown over my face, a dull ache in my chest and the sticky bunching of the sheets pressing into my back. I don't know why it surprised me. I don't know why I expected him to stay. The real world doesn't work that way, not in back alley rent-a-rooms, paid for with cash in small bills and silence bought with the right name and the flash of a diamond smile. They never stay with you, in that world. It was only ... I thought he might have been different.

But there was no sense dwelling on it. I pulled myself up out of the bed, wincing as the sheets tried to cling to my back, dropping away in stiff and shiny folds as I stumbled clear. I shuddered in revulsion, wondering how the hell I'd managed to fall asleep there to start with, but a fever-flash of burning blue eyes blew that question away before it was even finished. I shook my head to clear it, and fumbled my way through the darkness to the tiny door to one side. The shower was basic, so cramped I barely made it all the way in, and as cold as a Gotham winter, but at least the place had one, and it got rid of the itch crawling up my spine.

It took me a couple of minutes, once I got back into the room, to find my clothes. They weren't scattered around the floor, like I expected. Instead, they were folded neatly on the nightstand, all together. As neatly as if a maid had done it, or a man obsessed with order, and it struck me as a sterile and vaguely futile gesture. Every trace of Wayne had been removed, every sign he'd ever been there, except one thing.

A small card rested on top of my coat, pale and lonely in the shadows.

I held it between my teeth as I hurriedly shrugged myself into my pants, patting the wallet as I did, and pausing in surprise to find it still full. To have let me sleep, Wayne must have paid for the room for a night. But around here, that don't mean much. For me to still have all my belongings, he must have thrown around some serious weight to stop the management slipping in for a quiet rummage around.

I smiled a little, at that. Maybe I wasn't quite so abandoned as I had believed.

I padded over to the window to try and see what was written on the little scrap he'd left me. It wasn't easy. The light from the street was nearly nonexistant, and Wayne had that particularly high-class curved writing that's nearly impossible to read even in broad daylight. But I'd read Lois' scrawled memos after she'd flown out the door on some poor sap's tail, and once you can do that, not even doctors' handwriting is beyond you. I had to squint, but I managed. The message wasn't long.

_I would have left you some cash for a cab fare, but I didn't want to give you the wrong impression. I'm sorry. BW._

I blinked down at the little scrap of paper. I could almost see his sad, wry smile as he wrote it, the quiet precision with which he would have placed it against the lapel of my coat, one finger instinctively squaring it to the line of the fabric where I'd found it, and I wondered what kind of man would apologise for having allowed himself to be seduced as if he had been the one doing the seducing.

I moved automatically to tear the thing up, obscure the initials for security's sake, and toss it in the dented basket among the used remains of past pleasures. And stopped. Because that wasn't right. However easily he played the part, Bruce Wayne didn't belong there. No part of him, no thing of his, belonged there. He was not a man you threw casually away.

After a moment's pause, I opened my wallet, and slipped the card into it.

I got on with putting on my coat and shoes, pausing when I felt a small metal lump beneath the sole of one. The room key. I looked at it for a second, then stepped cautiously up to the door, and tried the handle. Locked. Wayne had left, locking the door, and left the key inside, in my shoe? Well. There was ever more to my millionaire than I thought to expect. I grinned, wondering where in that classy suit he stowed the picks, and smiling at the image of him crouched casually outside the door in his thousand-dollar shirtsleeves to fiddle the lock. No. Mr Wayne was not your average millionaire. He wasn't average at all.

And neither was the gentleman waiting for me on the other side of the grubby door.

I stepped back from the sudden light from the dim bulbs, which after the darkness of the room came close to blinding me, and sensed at the last minute a hand reaching out to close around my elbow. I went still, stiffening to jerk away and pull whoever it was after me, when the restraining hand released my arm and a quietly reproachful voice, one I knew, murmured in my ear.

"You should be more careful, Mr Kent." And I turned to see John looking at me in mild concern, as calm as if he stood behind his bar.

"What ... What are you doing here?" I asked, surprised. He raised an eyebrow.

"Bruce called me. He wanted someone to keep an eye on you. I couldn't spare anyone, so I came myself."

I blinked. "I didn't know this place had a phone," I muttered, still confused, and for some reason this made him smile slightly, a knowing glint in his eye. He didn't answer, though, and as what he said caught up with me, I didn't care.

"How do you know Mr ... Bruce?" I asked suspiciously, trying to guard against eavesdroppers as well as get my meaning across. He shrugged easily.

"You were talking to him yourself last night," he smiled, letting me know he understood the question. "I would have thought that he was not an easy man to forget?" No matter what he looked like when you met him. No. You would not forget Bruce. I nodded, and he smiled, reaching out to put a hand on my shoulder. I blinked at him.

"Why do I keep getting the feeling that everyone around here knows more than I do?" I muttered.

"Because we do," he answered, matter-of-factly, turning to lead me down the hall. And what are you supposed to say to that?

We headed down to what you might call the lobby, for lack of a more appropriate word, in silence. I tried not to listen to the muffled sounds behind cheap, closed doors, and wondered what we had sounded like, earlier. Bruce and I, I mean. Though _he'd_ been quiet, mostly. Except for the occasional snarls. And the soft murmur of words that I don't think meant anything, only that he had to say something to me, only that he had to remind himself that it was real. And I whispered them back, to reassure him that I was real too. But I don't know that I succeeded.

As we walked out into the street, it's whole character changed with the fall of true night, I stopped walking, and John paused to wait, patient as the moon. I looked around, at the sidling shadows slipping in and out of doors, at the white painted faces leering tiredly at them, at the lurid flashing of red lights, and back at my patient guide.

"Mind if I ask where we're going? This time?" I asked, a bit sharply, and he frowned. But I was tired, so very tired, of being led around by the nose, and falling time and again into situations I knew nothing about but couldn't help but feel involved in. Gotham, and her prince, had swept me up like a tide, and I had to find my feet before they pulled me down for good. And while getting John to tell me where we were going wasn't exactly a huge step in that direction, it was _a_ step, and that was what counted.

He looked at me, something sad and gently smiling about his eyes, and nodded suddenly. And smiled. I blinked at him.

"Are you hungry, Mr Kent?" he asked, humour hiding in his courteous tones, the very image of your everyday, helpful barman. I stared at him in amazement, and then ... I laughed. A low chuckle, nothing special, but I couldn't help it. There was something about the people here, something that made you love them even as they stabbed you in the back, something in the desperate humour of their lives that made me want to forgive them anything. John's lips curved into a wry smile as he watched me laugh, and when he held out a guiding hand, I took it easily.

It wasn't long before I was safely ensconced back on a corner stool in his bar, another plate of something hot and of doubtful providence in front of me. The trip through the streets of the old town, alive with the night-life of Gotham, had been educational. People had steered clear of us the whole way, much as they had with Matches, but with John the air of it had been different. With Matches, the avoidance had been out of wary caution, and more than a little fear, and since I had come to know the man behind the slime-ball, I didn't blame them. But with John, they had stood aside out of respect, and that was telling. I felt a little easier about my instinctive trust in him.

He watched me eat, unobtrusively, as he served the other customers and exchanged quiet murmurs that seemed to contain more information than actual words. It looked regular, practised, a code of behaviour that moved everything in his circle, with him silent and warm at its center. It was easy to understand why Bruce, and Dinah, and the others all gravitated to him. There was something welcoming in his silence.

"You should be careful," he said, abruptly, and I paused with my hand in the air. An electric thrill went through me, at the concern in his expression, though I still wasn't completely sure who that concern was for. And I wanted him to tell me.

"About what?" I asked. There had been a lot of things in the past few days that wisdom demanded I should be wary of. The question was which ones he knew, and which ones he cared enough about to warn me.

He looked down at his hands, at the glass he polished with the ease of long practice, and considered what to say. John struck me as a man who always gave considerable thought to everything before he opened his mouth. Not because he was considering how much of the truth to tell, although that may have been part of it, but because he wanted to phrase it to hurt as few feelings as possible. It was a good enough reason for me to be patient with him.

"You have to be careful of him," he said finally, and I had no doubt who he meant. "He is ... not as strong as he appears, and he can be dangerous when he is hurting. And what has happened this week has hurt him."

I blinked. "You think he's a threat to me?" I asked, just a little incredulous. Bruce ... somehow, I didn't believe he could ever deliberately hurt me. Not maliciously. Not then. I didn't know the way of things then. But even if I had ... I don't think it's ever been in me to fear him.

John looked at me carefully. "No," he answered, slowly. "Not the way you mean. But you may be a threat to him. And he has a ... unique way of dealing with threats."

I shook my head vehemently. "I wouldn't hurt him!" And I meant it. But I didn't understand just how hard it was to love him and _not_ hurt him. And the sadness in John's eyes said that he did know. All too well.

"You always hurt the ones you love," the barman quoted softly, and there were layers of old meanings to it, old griefs, but I didn't really notice, because those were his words. Bruce's words. And to hear them again, when he'd slipped away with only a note to tell me he'd ever been there, was like a kick in the gut. John watched me, and all the sad knowing in the world was in his eyes.

"If it means anything to you," he said suddenly, "he really does care about you. He admired you before he ever knew your name, for having the courage to follow him. And for standing at his side when you thought he was threatened. He doesn't expect that kind of thing. He never expects people to help him. That's why you're such a threat. He would risk too much to protect you."

"I don't need protection!" I said hotly, even though I was more than a little touched by what he said, and a little saddened too. But it was true. Gotham underestimated me. Most people did. I didn't break as easily as they thought I would, and I had more up my sleeve than anyone ever thought to expect.

"Do not be too sure of that!" he snapped, and there was a glimmer of real anger, and real fear, in his tone. "Believe me, Mr Kent, I know more about you than you think. And Gotham has ways of dealing with even the likes of us. Strength doesn't count for half as much as it should, here. For example," he added, with a wry look at me, "you get drunk as easily as any man. If Matches hadn't brought you home before midnight last night, do you want to think about where you'd be?"

I rose to argue, but stopped half way as a blade of ice slid into my gut. I froze, as something he said wormed it's way inside me and turned everything I'd thought resolved on its head. "What did you say?" I whispered. He frowned in sudden concern.

"That you get drunk like any man ..." he started, and I shook my head.

"No. About him taking me home. What ... What time did you say?"

He frowned in earnest now, but I didn't care. "Before midnight. About twenty to twelve, by my reckoning. Why?"

I shook my head helplessly. I couldn't answer. Every guarantee ... but no. He hadn't ever actually _given_ me any guarantees. I'd assumed. I'd been so caught up in his change of identity, that I'd never thought to question that it might not be an alibi at all. And then ... well, hadn't I just given him the perfect out? The perfect distraction, the perfect excuse not to have to elaborate, not to have to construct complex lies?

Twenty to twelve, Matches had brought me home. And twenty to one when Selina was killed. And Wayne knew Old Gotham inside out, and he had a car, and it was nothing, absolutely nothing, for him to have tucked me safely into bed, and turned around and shot her. And the one alibi, the one pair of eyes I would have trusted to tell me it wasn't him, had been fooled. And it wasn't the coincidence of times that sent the black ribbon of betrayal running through me. It was that he had to have _known_ that his story wouldn't have held, that his presence at the bar was no alibi at all, and he _still_ fed it to me. Everything that had led to me to suspect him in the first place was still true, and the one thing that had stood against it, the fact that I'd been with him when she was killed, was a lie. And I'd goddamn believed it. Believed _him_.

I sat back down, hard, and put my head in my hands over the bar. I had to. My hands were shaking so badly, they were hardly any support at all, but that wasn't why I shielded myself behind them. I felt the burning in my eyes, the heat of rage pouring through them, and long habit had taught me to hide it away. But I don't think I'd ever felt so ... so enraged, so _used_.

He cared for me. Oh, he did. I'd seen that. I'd seen the raw pain in his eyes, the sadness as he'd done exactly as he felt he had to, to shield me, to distance me from the murders. To sooth my conscience and send me on my way. That was true enough. He couldn't have faked the desolation and concern I'd seen in him.

And none of that meant a damn thing to me if he was a murderer. If he'd killed Selina, no amount of pained tenderness in the world could make me forgive him.

And damn it, but he'd known that too, hadn't he? A man who'd been seduced, apologising like he'd been the seducer. _I'm sorry. B.W._ Of course he'd been. He'd been sorry. But not for what I'd thought. Not for the thing I might have forgiven. Hell, that I _had_ forgiven. He had been apologising for the one thing he'd done that no-one could have forgiven him for, and he'd done it knowing that full well. And meant it.

A murderer, apologising for having lied to me. It was almost laughable.

Then a hand clamped around my arm, and I jerked away with a snarl. But the grip didn't falter a bit, and I looked up into John's fierce stare. There was concern in those patient eyes, and anger, and raw fear. The barman glared into my eyes, as if divining every thought I'd ever had, and there was desperation in it.

"No," he said, low and commanding. "It is not what you think. It is _not_."

"And how can you tell what I think?" I snapped back, angry and sick. He shook his head in frustration, as if to ask how could that possibly matter. And my anger rose all over again. Because how did it matter how anyone knew anything in this bloody city. Because everyone knew everything, didn't they? They all knew every secret and every act, who did what and where and why. And who cared if the stranger, if the foreigner, didn't? It's not his business. Even if he gets torn to shreds by it, it's not his bloody business!

"Stop." His voice was calm, calming, a clear note in the storm of my thoughts that demanded I listen. His eyes cut through me, defied me not to listen, not to heed. And I had to. "Stop this, Mr Kent. You are panicking, and it is making you paranoid. Stop. Think. Listen to me."

"Listen to another set of lies?" I asked bitterly, but I was calmer. You had to be, in the wake of that voice. Of those eyes. He sighed heavily.

"No-one has willingly lied to you, Mr Kent. That I promise you. And I have never lied to you at all, though I can see you won't believe that. Not now."

"Can you blame me?" I asked. He shook his head.

"No. No, I don't blame you, Mr Kent." The sadness in his eyes weighed heavily on me. "You have accidentally embroiled yourself in something very dangerous, very shady, and very hurtful. You are entitled to your suspicions, and your anger. But entitled or not, you are not correct in what you suppose. Bruce Wayne is not a murderer. His involvement in this business is ... complex, and far from above reproach, but he did not kill that woman."

"How do you _know_?" I asked. _How can you trust him?_ He stared at me for a long moment, weighing his answer carefully. But not to lie. Somehow, I didn't believe he would lie to me. But I'd believed that of Bruce, too.

"I know," he said at last, slowly and deliberately. "I know he is no killer. Because if he were, if it was in him at all to kill someone ... I would have been dead a long time ago."

I stared, my anger stopped in its tracks. "What?" I asked, stupidly. He smiled.

"Mr Kent," he smiled. "Exactly how many men could have held onto your wrist, just then? How many normal humans could have maintained a grip on you, in that temper?" I flushed, realising that I had, in fact, used my full strength. I could have seriously hurt ... oh.

He saw the comprehension in my eyes, and smiled wryly. "You see, Mr Kent?" he murmured. "I know more than you think. I have always been alert to these things. For a very good reason."

I blinked, distracted for a moment as I considered the implications. I wasn't alone. There were others, like me. Like him. He was ... like me.

But then reality intruded once again. "What does that have to do with anything?" I asked, harshly. He raised an eyebrow.

"He watches too," he murmured. "He notices. And when we first met ... he had no reason at all to think me any more than a monster. And ... did you know that Matches, the original Matches, was an arsonist? I do not like fire, Mr Kent. I ... am vulnerable to it, as I am not to many things. I think you understand that. You are not wholly invulnerable either, though I believe it is difficult to wound you. I was a threat, a monster, and at his mercy. And I am here, Mr Kent. And can count him as a friend. I think that should tell you all you need to know."

I blinked. And blinked again, hard. But my eyes refused to clear. Because, yes, I had seen it in him. I had seen him here, among these people, accepting them for what they were. Part of them, an alien at home among aliens, and knew that he had in him an incredible capacity for good. I known that the first instant I saw him. But ... he was still human. And humans, people ... when hurt, when angry ...

He had still deceived me. And I couldn't be deceived again. This proved nothing.

John let go of my wrist as he saw my face close over again, suddenly looking so very, very tired. So utterly weary. He let his hand drop away to rest on the bar, and clenched his fist in a futile gesture of frustration. And then released it again, and looked back up at me with a tired smile.

"Well, as I said, Mr Kent. You are entitled to your suspicions."

He turned to walk away down the bar, the weight of years settling on his shoulders, when the door burst open behind me. I spun, sliding off my stool to face the door. I don't know what I expected. I don't know why I thought, for one wild instant, that it might have been him. But it wasn't.

It was Lois. And she looked desperate. Nearly afraid.

"Clark!" she burst out, seeing me, and was at my side in an instant, tugging on my arm. "We've got to go! Come on!"

I dug in my heels, still confused. "What are you talking about, Lois? What's happened?"

She turned on me, angry and frightened, but mostly angry. "No time, Clark! They're coming to arrest you! On suspicion of the murder of Selina Kyle!"

"What?!" I spluttered, but even as I said it, I knew what had happened.

If Bruce's alibi didn't hold, then neither did mine. Both of them were dependant on us having been here at the time of the murder. And Gordon had sent Montoya to verify with John. And John didn't lie, and probably wouldn't even have known he had to. And being drunk can be faked, so easily. And I was an outsider, and the GCPD was as crooked as they come, and with a high-profile set of murders like this, could even Gordon have prevented the blade from swinging my way, when that came to light? Of course not.

I stood there for a minute, and then, for no reason at all, I burst out laughing. It was just so ... so very funny, all of a sudden. So bitterly ironic. Lois stared at me, real fear slipping into her stalwart features for the first time, but I couldn't help it. After Bruce, after the night I'd had, it was too much. Gotham had finally stopped playing, and brought me down.

I heard them coming. Nobody sounds quite like the police, coming to kick your door down. And I couldn't budge, not for all of Lois' desperate pleading. And seeing that, she stopped bothering, stopped trying to move me, and turned to face the door, on the balls of her feet, pulling a cloak of righteous anger around her as she settled in like a tigress defending her cubs. At my side, as sassy and determined as I'd ever known her. Willing to fight, and get hurt, on my behalf.

That snapped me out of it. Whatever was happening, whatever I'd involved myself in, I had no right to let Lois get hurt because of it. I grabbed her upper arm, spun her around despite her protests, and shot a desperate look around me for John.

Who was standing at a door behind the bar, gesturing hurriedly for us to go through it, get out of sight. There was no time for questions. I was through it faster than most humans could have made it, pulling Lois along behind me. I probably bruised her arm doing it, and she hissed quiet and vehement protests in my ear for a moment, when the slam of the outer door cut through every other sound in the bar.

And in the silence in its wake, we waited.


	8. Old Wounds

We froze, Lois and I, not daring to try and move farther back, for fear the noise would carry through the silence outside. And it was silent, hard and heavy, the kind of silence opponents dare each other to be the first to break. Completely silent, except for the heavy fall of feet, as someone swaggered inside, up to the bar, the measured thumps as their backup filed in around the door, and then a thunk, as if whoever it was had set something heavy on the bar.

Like a gun, maybe.

"Howdee, boys," the newcomer sneered, voice cheerful and humming with suppressed violence, and beside me Lois winced. I couldn't blame her. Under the circumstances, Bullock was probably the last copper in Gotham I wanted to have to deal with. So, naturally, it had to be him.

"Detective Bullock," John answered, calm and courteous, his soft voice carrying clear through the wall, and somehow, you felt calmer for hearing it. "How may I help you?"

There was a creak, and the groan of a heavy man setting himself down, and I thought Bullock must have taken a vacant barstool. Possibly even the one I had just left, and wasn't that a funny thought? I stifled a snort, realising I was still hovering close to hysteria, despite it all. Lois tightened her hand around my arm, her narrow little nails digging in pointedly, and I squeezed her arm gently back in return. I got the message.

"Oh, nuthin'," Bullock wheezed, something ugly in his voice. "Just lookin' for someone. A murderer. Thought you might have seen 'im, is all."

"I have seen no murderer," John answered immediately, calm but sharp. "No murderer has ever sat at my bar, officer, I give you my word."

Well, that was pointed, and not just at Bullock. But it's hard to be angry at the stubbornness of a man who is currently protecting your life. Without saying a word of a lie, as far as he saw it.

"Now, see, I rather doubt that," Bullock returned, slow and sweet and full of venom. "Kind of place you run, and all." The silence behind him took on a sharp and very deadly edge, and I could imagine them, all John's regulars, slowly straightening in their seats. And, surprisingly, I felt my own spine stiffen in raw affront.

I couldn't trust John. Not here, not now. Not after it all. But I sure as _hell_ respected him, and where did Bullock get off, implying something like that?

"I'm sure I do not know what you mean," John answered, stiffly. "I have given my word, officer. I don't know what else you want."

"Well, see, it's like this," and there was such vicious triumph in that voice, "I'm callin' you a liar, freak. And what I want, is the truth. Not your 'word', whatever that is, and whatever you think it's worth." There was a scrape, of something metal drawn across wood, the click of a weapon set more firmly in front of its owner. "Clark Kent. I know he's here. Scared his bird into running for 'im, didn't I, leading me right to him. And where did she lead me but here, eh? So rustle him up, or I'm not gonna keep being so friendly."

I swallowed bile, suddenly glad I couldn't see John's face, or those of his regulars. Suddenly glad I wasn't in Bullock's shoes, with the alien strength I had felt in John's arm, or the quiet composure of a dangerous man that he exuded, or the vibrating fury of the woman at my side. I blinked down at her in the dimness behind the door, and there was a world of apology in her eyes as she met mine, a world of hurt regret at being used like that to find me. I smiled at her, and clenched my fist so tight that on any other man it would have drawn blood. In that instant, I was fairly sure I hated Detective Bullock.

When John spoke, all warmth had been leached from his voice, all hint of gentleness. There was something old about it, suddenly, something remote and cold and alien. "I have told you the truth, Detective Bullock. There is nothing more I can offer you. No murderer has entered this bar, and no murderer has left it. That is the truth."

There was a creak, of someone leaning heavily on the bar, and I guessed Bullock was leaning into John's face, trying to intimidate him. I didn't rate his chances much. "I didn't say murderer, this time," he said, low and cold and ugly. "I asked you about Clark Kent." He paused, waiting for his answer, and I stiffened, but John said nothing. The moment stretched on, interminable, and still not a word passed his lips. And when Bullock went on, I could hear the smirk in his voice.

"I know about you, you know," he explained, quiet and up-close. "Heard it, seen it. How you always tell the truth, yeah? How you ain't ... quite normal, and this truth thing is like your way to make up for it. But I got news for you, freak." He stopped, and stood, his voice ringing out. "There ain't no way to make for being what you are. Ain't no way for anyone to make up for what they are. And right now, I couldn't give a toss if you think you're tellin' the truth. I know the boy's here, and I know you know it. I'm giving you five minutes to produce him, or ..."

"Or?" snarled someone in the back, over the scraping of chairs as people got ready to deal with this, with this threat to their bar, to their friend.

And then there was another sound. A scratching sound, followed by a flaring hiss, and it took me a minute to realise what it was, what it meant.

"Well," Bullock ruminated, slowly, as he lit a cigarette. "Like I said, I know about you. Listened to what they say, don't I? Got my ear on the street. And when they talk about you, about this place ... they mention stuff. Like how you ain't allowed smoke in here. Like how the barkeep, he don't like fire so much." He stopped, and I could hear the smile. "Like how very flammable these old places are. Hard to escape, hard to get out of if, God forbid, there should be some kind of blaze. Catch my drift, yeah?" There was a stillness so perfect it felt as if the whole world were holding its breath, not just everyone in the room. "Now. Don't suppose anyone here suddenly remembers seeing the kid? Clark Kent? Ringing any bells?"

I froze, biting my lip, as the world went red in my eyes, and something roared in my ears. _I ... am vulnerable to fire, as I am not to many things_. I remembered John saying that, and the desperate truth behind it, and the memory in his eyes of how close he had once come to dying by fire ... How dare he! How _dare_ he! I moved, instinctively, automatically, because this couldn't happen, it could not, not to John, of all people, and Lois tightened her grip desperately on my arm, as if to stop me, as if she had a real chance against my strength, and outside fifteen people stood up in raw and ready affront, determined to protect their friend, and I was this close to joining them, to surrendering, and somehow I knew that John knew of my intent, but he could do nothing to stop it, and then ...

A woman's voice, fury so deep it was almost palpable, snapping out across the room, and the furious stride of boots, and a slap that rang like a thunderclap in the stillness. "How _dare_ you," Montoya spat, her voice vicious, and there was a click as she armed her sidearm. "How dare you call yourself a policeman!" I heard her turn on the spot, Bullock stunned breathless behind her, and snap at the other men by the door. "Out! All of you! We're leaving, right now! Get _out!_ "

And after a stunned second, they did. Because man or not, copper or not, even in Gotham, they were smart enough to obey an armed, pissed off woman, inferior rank or not. They filed out, and she turned back to Bullock, the gun still in her hand, though I doubt it was pointed at him. Because the rich disappointment in her voice, instead of fury, said she didn't want to shoot him. "Harvey, what the _hell_?"

He didn't answer. Maybe he was still stunned. Maybe it was something else, something different. But he didn't answer, and he didn't move, and she didn't hit him again.

"I think," John cut in, almost gently, "that you should leave, Officer Montoya. Detective Bullock. What you want is not here."

"Yeah," she answered, distractedly, and shifted in place. "Come on, Harvey. We're leaving, yeah? I'm sorry, John. Everyone." And he followed her, up the steps and out of the bar, and everyone in it slumped in relief as he left. Before I knew it, relief rushing like a drug to my head, I was in a heap on the floor, my forehead pressed tiredly to the wall, and Lois knelt beside me with her hands rubbing soothing circles on my shoulders, and her head shaking in sad exasperation.

Moments later, and the door to the bar opened beside me, and I looked up to meet John's tired and strained eyes. I opened my mouth, to say something, thank you or I'm sorry, or anything, but he shook his head sadly, and gestured beyond us, towards the stairs. I frowned.

"They are still outside. You will hear them if you go to the window in the second room to the right. Go. Listen." He paused, and then continued, very sadly. "You will understand, a little, if you do." Lois stood, looking at him with that strange, inquisitive expression of hers, and I followed her more slowly, but John seemed too tired to elaborate. All he said, as we turned in resignation to the stairs, was this:

"In this city, even the worst of them is not necessarily what he seems."

I mulled that over as we climbed, struggling to match Lois' rapid pace. She sensed something, some piece of the puzzle, some fragment of a story in the instruction, and she followed as she always did, a hawk stooping towards the kill. I tagged along behind, listening in the silence to the sadness in John's voice, and the layers of meaning in that sentence, in this city, in this case. Even Bullock, even after such a threat. Even ... even Bruce, after that betrayal.

How could anyone hold that kind of faith, offer that kind of forgiveness. How could John extend that, as hurt as he was?

And why couldn't I?

And then we were there, crouched in the loveseat by the window, looking down on their hunched figures, listening to the tired, angry voices that curled like smoke up towards us, and the story that unfolded with them.

"What were you thinking, Harvey!" Montoya ranted, fury and fear in her voice. "Threatening him like that, threatening _them_ like that! You know who they are, what they can do! Even if you haven't the basic humanity not to coerce someone into something, surely you know better than to do it to them! _Jesus!_ I knew you were a bent cop, but this!" And for some reason, there was sadness in her voice, as she said that. And he laughed at it, a rasping, broken chuckle, and I could see his head shaking in the dimness.

"Ain't no man can make up for what he is, eh?" he said, echoing himself, and why was everyone in this city so damned _tired_? So old, all of them, so bitter and broken and tired. "I am what I am, girl. Always will be." And the contempt had fled from him, so that there was no edge to it, not even to 'girl', and he sounded almost as if he was speaking to someone he respected. Something twisted in her, and she reached out in the darkness to touch his shoulder, hesitant and angry, sad.

"You ain't been that in a long time, Bullock," she said, roughly. "Not under Gordon. Not now, not with us. You ain't that man, Harvey."

He shook his head. "Always, girl. Leopard can't change his spots, after all." And his voice hardened, chilled. "I am what I am, and I'm what Gotham makes me! Ain't never gonna apologise for that!" And then it dropped, saddened and firmed, like an oath, like a promise. "Difference is, now I got someone worth doing it for. Someone actually worth it."

She paused, looking at him. "Gordon?" she asked, slowly, and nodded in time with him. "Is that what this is about? All of this?"

"Straight cops don't last too long around here," he agreed. "Gordon's good. He's damn good, but the city's against him, and he don't even realise. He don't know how bad things are." His voice was dull, now, and old. "Seen it, ain't I? The old Commissioner, he was a bastard. Made the likes of me look like nuthin', penny ante. Arranged a thing or two, had me and others like me arrange a few more. Hated his guts, but he knew the way things worked, knew how to put the pressure on, so I did it. Then he got whacked, and we get Gordon." He turned to her, turned to face her, and the life was vicious in him. "Gordon never asked nuthin' of me, 'cept my job. Never asked nuthin'. Not one 'arrangement', not one little job. And if I've got to do a few of me own on the side, make sure he can keep on not askin' anyone, make sure he can be as straight as he likes ... I'll be as bent as you please, and I'll not apologise for it!"

She was silent, looking at him, and there was something that I thought might be pity, in her shadowed expression, and something that might have been pride, and everything that was loyalty. She agreed with him, down to her bones, even if she mourned the way he was with it, the things he did.

Even if their methods were different, their ends were the same. They'd die for that man, for that tired and intelligent man that had stood with me as they took Selina away, and looked at her with compassion. They would die for him, and I could hardly blame them.

"Why Kent?" she asked, at last. "Unless you know something I don't, there's no proof he had anything to do with the murders." She frowned. "You _don't_ know anything new, right?"

He shrugged easily. "Nah. Alibi won't hold, but that means bugger all. Gordon knows he didn't do it, down to his gut, and Gordon ain't wrong about stuff like that. If Kent did it, I'll be real surprised." She stared at him, and I did too, stunned and angry. All that, everything downstairs, threatening John, using Lois, and he didn't even believe I'd done it? What was wrong with this man?

"Then ..." she said slowly, dangerously, and he shrugged sadly.

"He's the safest suspect," he answered. "Ain't got no-one to stand for him, no-one to make life difficult for us or Gordon. That's what's important." And he turned towards her, urgency slipping into the movement as he cut off her shocked argument. "Because this case, girl ... diamonds and blood, and Wayne everywhere you look ... this is high up, Montoya. This is high class murder, and Gordon's heading right into it. And much as he's done, much as he's managed in this city, I guarantee, _guarantee_ you, Gordon will not survive accusing the likes of Wayne with murder. Not the way things are in this city. And he'll do it. You know he'll fucking do it, and damn the consequences to himself. And I can't, I _will not_ let that happen. Not to him. Not to him." He stopped, staring at her, pleading her to understand, and I had to look away. I could feel my eyes blurring, feel the pain knifing up through me, and I had to look away.

Because he was right, wasn't he? In Gotham, you didn't bite the hand that fed you, or you'd pay the price, and Gordon ... Damn it, Gordon was a good man. I'd known it from the first time I say him. If he suspected Wayne, he would ...

But Bruce wouldn't! He _wouldn't_. Goddammit, lies, betrayal, duplicity, all that I knew him guilty of ... even Selina, with the pain in his eyes as he fought with her ... maybe even that, I could see, though something deep in my heart still screamed denial, after everything he'd done. But to coldly destroy Gordon, to destroy that honest man the way Bullock implied ... No. It wasn't in him. Not Bruce. Not purely for the crime of being right, of finding the truth. The man who had looked at me with those pained, lonely eyes, who had opened himself up to blackmail to convince me, who had yet to strike against me, with all that I knew ...

I buried my head in my hands. No. No. Goddammit, but no. Bruce couldn't, wouldn't, was not that man. John was right. John had to be right. Because there was nothing in my heart that could believe there was a murderer behind those eyes, nothing in me that could believe he would do what everyone in Gotham thought he would, nothing ... nothing that could believe he had killed Selina, would destroy Gordon.

I felt the tears running down my cheeks, heard Lois murmuring in panicked whispers at my side, tracing her hands over and over my shoulder, my head, soothing and calming, desperate. I ignored her. I had to. I wasn't ready, not yet. I wasn't ready to explain why this hurt, why it mattered so much to me. Why I wanted to ... to protect them. All of them. Gordon. John. Bruce. Oh, god, but especially Bruce.

He had wanted me gone. Wanted me to leave, angry and betrayed, while he did something. Wanted me out of harm's way, out of Gotham's reach as the endgame played out in her streets and her rich manors. Because he couldn't harm these people. But more than that. Bruce wanted to protect them, same as me. I knew it, suddenly and completely, deep in my bones. He wanted to protect me, and he wanted to protect them. Gordon, and his men. The few bright, honourable things Gotham had to offer. That's why he did what he did. That's why Matches walked Gotham's night, why John supported him, why all these people counted him a friend without ever knowing the truth of him, the depth of him.

He wanted to protect them. Protect me. And in the process, he was more than willing to hurt me, and even more willing to harm himself.

I felt the presence at the door, even before I heard Lois' gasp of surprise, even before I heard the creak of floor. I knew he was there, even before I raised my head to meet his eyes. John looked down at me, impossibly sad and indescribably proud. He knew I understood. I didn't know how, and I didn't care. He knew, and he was proud of me for it, even as my pain hurt him in turn. And for some reason, there were few things that mattered more to me in that moment, than the feeling of his pride and his respect. But John's like that. He just like that.

"What do I do?" I asked him, voice hoarse. "What can I do?" And the sadness increased tenfold in his eyes, along with the compassion, and a kind of depthless determination.

"I do not know," he answered, calm and quiet. "Bruce has not confided in me since this began. It is too deep, too close to him for him to trust another, even me. He is hurting, and he is secretive and nearly self-destructive when hurt. Selina should not have died. That she did ... it has almost killed him, and he will do anything to stop her killer. But ... he has asked no help, shared no knowledge. Without knowing who he is after, who is after him ... I do not know what to do."

I nodded, feeling the helplessness rising in me, and the anger. Because dammit it, couldn't he have trusted me? Or if not me, even John? People he cared for were dying, and he had not even the sense to ask for some help!

"Bruce? Bruce Wayne?" a voice asked beside me, sharply, and I turned to look in surprise at Lois, and then shame. Of course. Lois didn't know. Lois didn't know any of it. I hadn't told her. Even in pursuit of someone I suspected of murder, even about to take a murder rap myself ... I hadn't even told her.

And I called Bruce an idiot for not asking for help.

Meeting her gaze sheepishly, I could see from her arched eyebrow and scowling mouth that Lois agreed with me on that. One hundred percent. The glitter in her eyes called me an idiot louder than any words or accusations.

"I think," she enunciated, very clearly, "that the pair of you have some explaining to do, yes? And sooner, rather than later?" I met John's eyes above her head, seeing the rueful agreement in them as he nodded, and shook my head sheepishly, before turning to face that fierce, intelligent expression, and tell my friend all I knew.

Her expression shifted many times, in that explanation, though she didn't interrupt. Something like amusement, and frowning contemplation, when I mentioned the first sight of those lonely eyes. Anger, and maybe a hint of admiration, at my recklessness in following him that first night. Confusion, and consideration, as I explained Matches, and John. Sorrow, as I explained confronting Bruce, and what had come of it. Anger, at what I thought Bruce had done to me, at what he _had_ done to me.

And then, as John took up his part of tale, her expressions shifted a little to match mine. Incredulous admiration, as he explained what Bruce was to them, what he did. Patrolling Gotham. Fighting crime. It sounds so cliched, but when you _see_ it, when you see Gotham and what she takes out of you, when you've seen Bruce and all it has cost him ... you understand. You really do. Why they fight for him in return. Why they count him a friend.

But as much as John could tell us about Bruce, as much as he could explain what the man we suddenly fought for did to make it worth it, he knew nothing of this case. He didn't know why Weiss and Selina had died. He didn't know why it mattered so much to Bruce, aside from all that Selina herself had meant. He didn't know who was killing these people, or why, or why Bruce seemed to know. Because he did, apparently. Bruce knew who he was hunting. But John did not, and I did not, and if Bruce was fighting them right that minute, there was not a damn thing we could have done about it. It showed, in our expression, in our hopelessness. It had to. And Lois looked at us, listening, watching, and while I all but despaired, something sharp and triumphant slipped into her eyes, though I didn't see it until she opened her mouth, and shut us both up.

"Gentlemen," she said, compassionate but with that instinctive pride she always had when she knew something you didn't. "I think I can help you with that." And while we stared at her in shock and dumb hope, she reached into her bag and pulled out, with the flourish of a magician performing her best trick, a thick manilla envelope.

A casefile, marked GCPD, bearing so many stamps screaming 'Confidential' and 'Keep Away' it was a wonder there was any room for the subject. Andre Weiss. The man whose murder started all this. And, it turned out, the cause of all this, and more besides, stemming back years to a crime all but forgotten. An old murder. An old motive. And one very angry survivor.

I knew I should have asked Lois from the start.


	9. Diamonds Are Forever

Weiss. All the time, it was Weiss. I should have known it. If I hadn't been so caught up in Selina, in Bruce, maybe I might have. But it was Weiss all along.

Death and diamonds, those were the links in the chain. And his was the first death, the biggest stone. The biggest grudge. The kind of hate it takes, to kill a man and pass up a stone like the Sehri-At, to shove it in the corpse's mouth ... and I should have noticed that one, too. Diamond tongue. And Selina's, resting over her heart. You can buy anything in Gotham, for the right price. A diamond, for a word, for a heart. That's what the killer thought, too.

Andre Weiss was a dirty business man. Everyone knew it, no-one could prove it. He slipped and slid his way in and out of trouble, leaving grubby fingerprints over everything he touched, but never in places they could get him caught. He'd had a hand in every back pocket in Gotham. The old Commissioner. The Mayor. Even, it was rumoured, that DA who'd gone insane a couple of years back and started killing people, though that was one rumour I didn't credit so much. Point was, Weiss was dirtier than last week's laundry.

But he'd never been caught. Never in any big way. Much as Gordon and the few right cops in the city had tried, over the years. Only once had he ever come close to going down. Only once. That was the casefile Lois brought us. That was the key, to the whole case, to Selina, to Bruce. To Weiss.

It was a brothel, down the Old Town, of all things. Gordon had said it, though, hadn't he? How Selina'd been a bit of a skirt. And Bruce, how she'd once worked for Weiss, one of his 'enterprises'. He should know. He'd bought her up out of it. Out of a brothel. How had I missed that? But it wouldn't fit in my head. Selina ... she'd been so much more than a whore. So much more. So I'd let it go, let it slide away in my head. And almost destroyed Bruce because of it.

There are times I wonder how I've managed to get so far in life.

"He was in that place up to his eyebrows," Lois stated, holding the sheets in her hands, lips pursed with disgust. It's a good look on her, you know. She does it real well. "He bought and paid for it. Ran it. Used it. The whole works. There's enough paper here to sink him fifty times over. They had him. They had everything they needed. Why the hell did they let him slide?" She looked up, eyes hot and angry, staring at John like it was his fault. Gotham. Stay too long, she has you looking at everyone that way.

"I don't know," he answered, calm as ever, shaking his head lightly. "Before my time, Ms Lane. I wasn't always a fixture of this city." He smiled, gently, while she winced in shame, and patted her hand to let her know he hadn't taken offense. Then, his face hardened. "But. I can guess. I was only sitting on the edges, back then, but I can guess."

"The old Commissioner," I said, quietly, remembering Bullock's bitter diatribe, remembering what being a cop had used to mean in Gotham. "Weiss bought him, had him keep him out, didn't he?"

John nodded, lips tight. "Probably."

"More than that," Lois said, looking back at the file. "He bought the Commissioner. But he sold them." She pointed to the mugshots, the women lined up against a wall in some copshop, the seedy pimps and managers. "Look at this. This is the entire business. The whole deal. All in one shot. You don't get that from a bust. You never get it all. Someone always slips through the cracks. But this ... they even got the sources of the girls, the pimps that sold them on to the house. They got the moneymen, the suppliers, even the bouncers for crying out loud! The whole deal. He sold them." She looked up at us, something dark in her eyes, vengeful. Lois hates injustice. She really does. "He bought his way out with them. Whatever else he sold with it, he betrayed them. All of them. He sold them out."

There was silence for a minute. I don't know quite why. Respect, maybe. For the gravity of it, of what he'd done. This was Gotham. Corruption waited around every corner, and the only defense, the _only_ defense anyone had was the solidarity of their fellow crooks. To betray that ... Weiss had proved himself lowest of the low, in Gotham's eyes. And in mine. I looked at the mugshots again, looked in the bewildered, tired, angry eyes of Weiss' victims, the whores and the crooks, the lowest of the low, but still people. Still worth something, even in this crooked city. They had deserved better than to be sold out for one rich bastard's safety. Suddenly, I could see why Bruce was so hated down here, him and people like him, the old rich. Lives sold on a whim, and no way to hold them accountable. I could see why his name evoked such fear, such hate, such contempt, from people like Bullock, people ... like Selina.

Bruce was different. I knew that now. He wasn't what Weiss had been. He was so far from Weiss they couldn't have seen each other with a telescope. But he was in this. He was tied into this. Weiss had called down something on his head, called down vengeance, from one of these tired, wounded people he'd sold, or someone else, but he'd called something down on Bruce, too. On Selina.

Selina.

I started riffling through the file again, hunting for a mention, for a name. What had Lois said? They'd got them all, all in one go. Every last whore, every manager. Even the bouncers. Except one. Where was Selina?

"He bought her out," John said behind me, soft and almost awed. It took me a second to realise what he meant. And then I got it.

Bruce. Bruce bought her out. Selina. He'd known, watched the whole bust go down, and he'd bought Selina out of the mess, even as Weiss sold her into it. He'd known her. He'd loved her. Everyone knew it.

Everyone knew it. They _knew_ it. Even Gordon. He'd all but told me, hadn't he? While they carried Selina away. He'd told me. How Wayne had fallen for her, bought her way up out of the slums. Bought her way out of more than that. Bought her out of a prison, out a web of treachery reaching right into the heart of Gotham. Old rich, Bruce Wayne. No-one would argue with him, any more than they would with Weiss. More. Andre was slime. Bruce ... was _power_. No way the old Commissioner would have said no. What was one woman, in the middle of this triumph? So Bruce had used the power he had over the police, used Gotham's corruption to his own ends, and bought Selina her freedom.

No wonder Bullock was afraid of him. No wonder he was afraid to see Gordon go up against him. It wasn't just the inherent fear every cop seemed to have of the rich and powerful in this city. They already knew Bruce would use the power he had. He'd done it before. He'd done it before.

I sat down, leaned my head back against the wall as John met my gaze, tired and sad and knowing. Bruce. Everything he'd done, everything he still did to help bring justice back to this town, and in that one moment of weakness he'd sold it all away, all credibility Bruce Wayne had, for her. For Selina. He'd given her so much more than just a damn diamond. He'd given her freedom, and his own reputation. He'd given her everything he'd worked for. His goals. His hopes. He'd sold it all away in one moment, to save her.

He really had loved her. All the hurt they'd done to each other, all the pain of his leaving, of her spitting in his face ... despite all that, he had loved her. The thought hurt. It hurt so damn much. He'd given her everything, except the one thing she'd wanted. What had she said to me? 'He'll buy you any dream you wish, but he won't keep you, and he won't give you his heart in return.' That's what I had walked into. Love, lies, betrayal and loss, anger, pain, bitterness. Sacrifice. And at it's heart, a woman who'd deserved everything she'd never been given, and a man with the loneliest eyes I'd ever seen.

"He didn't kill her," I whispered, at last, so soft even I could barely hear it, feeling Lois' hand on my shoulder, John's quite gaze meeting mine. "He really didn't kill her." The last doubt in my mind fell away, lost forever. He hadn't killed her. No matter where he had been that night, no matter what he'd done to me to get me out of the way, I knew it then, once and for all. Bruce Wayne had not killed Selina.

Now all we had to do was find who had. And then, Lois spoke up.

"He didn't kill her," she said, gently for my sake, but firm. "But Clark ... he's the reason she was killed. She was killed because of him." I stared at her.

"What?" I asked, stammered, almost angry at her for saying it, in that moment when I was just getting my faith in him back. But then I thought about it. And I saw what she'd seen. My Lois. Sharp as tacks.

"He bought her out, Clark," she said, intently, fiercely. "All these people, they had a reason to kill Weiss, any one of them. A reason to kill him, and stick his diamond in his betraying mouth. The price for their lives, that he sold with a word? Have it, then! Have it, you bastard, and choke on it!" She drew up, an angel of vengeance, and we heard the killer's voice behind her. It made sense. It made such sense. Then she slumped down again, and shook her head sadly. "But he wasn't the only one to betray them in that bust. She did, too. She took her rich lover's hand, and left them to rot. Left them all behind, for a rich playboy and a diamond necklace. Sold her heart and her loyalty, all in one."

I nodded numbly. I could see it. I could see Selina, lying there, the wound so dark and leering in her chest, over her heart, and the gleam of white fire inside the red. The diamond. Bruce's diamond. Laid into the wound, like the Sehri-At in Weiss. A diamond for a heart. For this, you would betray me? Have it, then. Have it in death. It made sense. It made such sense. Lois looked at me, such sad and terrible understanding in her eyes. For me, what this did to me, to know what had been done to Selina and why. But more. For them, whoever they were. For the killer, who'd been betrayed and abandoned. Even with what they'd done, even with everything they'd done ... there wasn't a one of us in that room who couldn't understand, just a little, why.

"It's justice," John said, finally, infinite sorrow in his voice. "The killer. She thinks it's justice, what she does. Retribution, but justice too." All the justice a victim can have, maybe, in this black-hearted city, but that part went unsaid. We knew. Only three days in Gotham, and we knew. For all the efforts, people like Bruce, Gordon, John ... Gotham was still that city, in so many ways. I nodded, solemn, then frowned, catching something else in that statement.

"She?" I asked, suddenly suspicious. "Why did you say 'she', John?" Surely he didn't ... how did he know ...? But he shook his head, with a sudden faint smile, and nodded ruefully at Lois. I blinked, turning to her, and she sighed heavily.

"It's a woman, Clark," she said with weary patience, the kind she got when she was trying to explain to me how I'd managed to get my heart broken this time. "It has to be a woman."

"What? Why?" On purely physical evidence, I would have thought exactly the opposite. Not for Selina, but for Weiss. It took more than a little muscle to remove a man's head from his shoulders, to have strangled him first. But Lois was shaking her head at me, wry and almost ... protective? I frowned at her.

"Because of Selina," she explained, gently. "Because of the way she was killed, Clark. A man doesn't do that. Not to a woman who betrayed him. He does ... other things." For a second, her face darkened, the tigress rising inside her once more, and I shuddered, nodding. I'd seen the aftermath of enough crimes of passion to know what she meant. "But the diamond ... that's different, Clark. That makes it different. It's a woman. A woman passed over, a woman betrayed. A woman ... who hasn't finished yet."

I closed my eyes, feeling the chill seep over me. She was right. She was right. Because there was one more player in this game, wasn't there? One more betrayer, one more rich and evil man to punish in this quest for vengeance. The man who'd bought Selina while Weiss sold the killer. The man who'd let Selina betray them, tempted her away. The man who had saved Selina, and passed over the woman who'd killed her.

Bruce Wayne. The man who, even now, was alone and hunting in this black jungle of a city. The man who knew his enemy. The man who was rushing headlong to meet her. The man I might, just, love.

Damn him! Damn him anyway! Why couldn't he have just told me? Why couldn't he have let me help, let me in? I promised. I promised I wouldn't hurt him, promised I'd take the pain away, stand by him. I'd promised him! And he'd let me. He'd let me promise, acted like he believed me, and then ... then in the morning he'd left, he'd betrayed me, he'd done his level best to make me leave in anger, make me hate him so I'd be safe, make me leave him like Selina had left him when he couldn't find it in him to lower that one last barrier behind his lonely eyes, and let her know his heart. He'd done his best to drive me away.

'And look,' whispered a little voice in the back of my mind, 'look how very close he came to succeeding. Because you promised him, and you love him, but trust him? Did you ever trust him? Did she? How can he ever trust you, trust any of you, when you won't do the same for him?' And it was true. It was the truth, and suddenly I was grateful, desperately grateful for John, for his help, his words and his faith, for the example of his trust. I looked at him, reached out towards him, trying to let him see, to let him understand ... and he met my eyes, caught my reaching hand, and though for the life of me I couldn't tell you _how_ , all at once I knew that he knew. That he saw, understood. John Jones. Whatever he was, alien, monster or man, he knew me. And he trusted me. I don't know if I've ever felt anything more weighty, or precious, than the trust I saw in him then.

Except one thing, maybe. One thing as heavy in my heart, as precious to me. Bruce's love. The love I'd seen, just for a moment, in a filthy motel room, in the lonely eyes of a man planning to betray me. In a man planning to hunt a killer, a man ready to fight and die for a woman he'd failed, and a innocent farmboy who didn't understand.

I had to find him. I knew it in that instant, the way you know left from right, and right from wrong. I had to find him, and show him. Show him I meant that damn promise, and another one. One I made, right then and there, in the silence of my mind. The promise to protect him, whether he damn well liked it or not. The promise to show him how much more than a farmboy I was. How much stronger, how much deeper. So he could know. So he could know that someone in the world, with all the strength of a god, would use that strength for his sake.

I had to find him, but I didn't know how. Bruce Wayne or Matches Malone, there was no-one in this city who could track him down if he didn't want to be found. Not Bruce. If it was possible, John would have done it already. That, I knew as surely as the other. John didn't leave friends to die. So. I couldn't find Bruce, not in time. But ... maybe there was another way. Maybe ... I could find the killer.

That instant, almost right on cue, Lois spoke up from my side, not looking at myself or John, having left us to our moment of silent communion. Instead, she was looking at the photos from the file, spread out before her. Looking at one photo in particular, that of a slim, hard-edged woman with blonde hair, glaring out at the camera. I frowned, following her gaze, the tap of her finger as she studied the image curiously, wondering what it was she saw.

"Clark," she mused. "Does this woman look familiar to you?"

I blinked at her, then looked back down. The face did ring a bell, touching something in my mind, the tickle of memory, and I frowned, searching back over the past few days, trying to get a grasp on what it was ...

"I know her," John rumbled suddenly, leaning over my shoulder to look, frowning as deeply as I was. He reached out, feathered one hand lightly over the image, tracing the line of the jaw. "I know her. She ... Does she not live in Ms Kyle's building? I brought her home, one night, after ... after Bruce, and I am sure I saw this woman."

I blinked once more, and froze, catching Lois' eye as her head came up in the same moment, both of us remembering at once. When Gordon called me in to see Selina's body. The woman in white, being bundled into a car as I passed. Selina's landlady, Gordon had said. It was her. It _was_ her. And before ... I frowned, pulled up the memory, of that first night in Gotham, at the ball ... yes! The woman in white, who'd caught the serving girl who'd found Weiss, who'd carried her away to comfort her while the rest of us raced to find the cause of the fuss! I remembered her. I _remembered_. And it made sense. No need to run and see. She knew what we'd find. And Selina. She'd had Selina in her grasp the whole time, waiting for the right moment. Only twenty four hours between murders, because she'd known right where Selina was, the whole time ...

"It's her," Lois whispered, the thrill of a huntress closing in humming in her voice. "Damn it. Why didn't we see? Why didn't anyone see? She was right there. She was on the scene, both times. Why did no-one see?"

"Because of Bruce," I whispered, understanding suddenly. What had blinded me, the whole time? Bruce. Bruce, with his riches and his old love for Selina, and the fear he commanded in the police, in people like Bullock. And me. For the cops, there was always me. I'd been at both scenes too, and for far less reason than a rich woman who'd just happened to live in the same building as the second victim. The billionaire and the outsider, both of us looming large over the investigation, getting in the way, casting our shadows over the truth. Drawing all eyes our way, and letting the real killer slip by, in the guise of a harmless woman.

In the guise of Elena Dornez. Once a hooker, Weiss' old brothel mistress, then a convict, and now one of the richest women in Gotham. Diamonds, I remembered suddenly. She'd made her business in diamonds, on winning her freedom. That's why she'd been at the Opening of the Sehri-At, supposedly. Half the jewel community of Gotham had been there. Such a perfect excuse ... And Selina. Jewel-thief, Gordon had said. Suspected. I wonder where Dornez got her original stash?

"It's her," I repeated, looking at Lois, at John, as the pieces slotted into place in my mind, hearing the echo of the click in theirs. We knew. We had her. This was our killer, the woman who'd dragged us all unwitting into this decade-old tangle of crime, betrayal and vengeance. This was the woman who'd killed Weiss, murdered Selina.

This was the woman who meant to kill Bruce. And there was not a person in that room who planned to let her.

"I'll find her," John said, suddenly, the chill in his voice sending shivers up my spine. John was one man I was sure no-one wanted to mess with. "She's not Bruce. I have friends. They will find her." We nodded. We didn't doubt it.

"I'll bring this to Gordon," Lois said, softly, gathering up the file and meeting my look of surprise with eyes full of steel. "Whatever happens," she went on, calm and deadly, "the GCPD are going to know who the real killer is. I'll get them off your back, Clark." A promise, and she meant it. But there was more there. More than one justice being sought, and I knew what the other was. Lois was going after Bullock. For what he'd done to her, to me, to John. For using her, using me. Lois didn't take kindly to being used. Even understanding why, even with what we'd heard earlier, someone had to pay for what had been done. I knew that, and understood it. And nodded my gratitude.

So they had their missions. John, and Lois. My friends. Bruce's, too. They knew what to do, and could do it. What about me? What could I do? I couldn't go with Lois, not with a warrant for my arrest hanging over my head. And I couldn't help John. The kind of friends he was talking about ... I had a suspicion they wouldn't take kindly to a stranger asking them to hunt for him. So I couldn't help them. But I had to do _something_. With all Bruce had done for me, with all I'd been through for him, I couldn't just sit back and let events rush towards his death without me.

And then I remembered. Maybe I couldn't find Bruce, maybe John couldn't, but there was one person I'd seen in this city who might be able to. A silver-haired gentleman who scared cabbies, cops and criminals alike, who'd driven Bruce into the Old Town that night, who'd watched as I walked away with him outside the station. A man Bruce might just have trusted enough to say where he was going.

I stood up, watching as Lois and John stood with me, watching as they noted my sudden sense of purpose. I nodded to them, to both of them. "We'll find them," I said, a promise as real as the one I'd given Bruce. "We will find them."

And we would. I would. If I had to tear Gotham apart to manage it, and I knew they felt the same as they left, as they went out to start the hunt. We'd find him. Find Bruce, alive and well, and beat some sense into his stubborn, lonely, self-sacrificing skull. That was the strength and entirity of my purpose, and I wasn't going to be swayed for anything.

And to that end, I went out, caught a cab, and set out for the outskirts of the city once more. I had an appointment, this time, whether the old man knew it or not. And I wasn't going to be scared away.


End file.
